


Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by sa00harine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Bev hosts household fashion shows and dance parties, Bill especially is a mess, F/M, M/M, Stan POV, jampacked with fluff babey, the only man in the universe Mike Hanlon has his shit together, they're all stressed the fuck out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 23:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine
Summary: “Who wants to say something?” Eddie pulls on the sleeves of his shirt.Rip it off like a band-aid, Stan bids himself. “I think that I’m in love with all of you,” he says. Once the heaviest boulder is skipped off into the river, he can handle the smaller, lighter ones. “It started a few years ago. I thought I was just crazy or something, but we’re all so close and we went through Derry and we got through it together. I think if we’re together we can overcome anything.”They’re nodding. Good sign.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, OT7 - Relationship, Poly Losers Club - Relationship, Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Stanley Uris/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 30
Kudos: 309
Collections: Poly Losers Club Fic Exchange





	Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Author's Note:**

> Helllooo! This is for the Poly Losers Club Fic Exchange, written for @courageouskaspbrak on tumblr! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!  
Also, I apologize in advance for any typos! I haven't found the time to edit, but I'll sweep through and check for errors once this posts.  
<3

Applying to colleges had been hard, sure. Stanley Uris, easily the most composed of them all, had pulled through multiple mental breakdowns while intricately writing dozens of essays to submit. Thank God for Richie, who had been right there with him in his cramped bedroom with the bird-patterned bedsheets. They'd written essays and submitted them together the January of their senior year. But it was Mike who was with Stan when NYU had taken his fiance and accounting double major in stride. Mike had watched as Stanley promptly fell off the bed, threw his head in his hands, peeked at his laptop, and screamed. Mike had shouted for Stan's parents. Mr and Mrs. Uris had embraced him, and the four shared a tight hug that Stan fought to recall today, working his steady way through a burdensome paper about finance trends in marketing. As he writes, his mind splinters into two- one side, presumably his left side, taking over the analytic, statistic writing, and the other, right side, recalling their collective college acceptances. 

Richie’s had come the following week, a letter from Tisch- rather than an email, like Stan's. They had Richie's letter hung in their hallway, a reminder of how far he'd come for the times when he needed it- that read enthusiastically something to the effect of we are honored to accept you into our drama program. Richie had called Stan, then Eddie, then Bill. 

Bill's fate was next. It arrived in the form of a meeting with his counselor providing him with a scholarship to Brooklyn College for creative writing. Purely elated, Bill had invited them all to sleep over that night. They had. There, Eddie had gotten his own results. Eddie was scrolling through his phone, minding a heated debate between Richie and Beverly about how _ Under Pressure  _ and  _ Ice Ice Baby _ did or did not sound the same, when he threw the device into the air. Mike had caught it, and read aloud that Eddie's application in business was graciously accepted by Pace University. They'd rushed down the stairs then, quietly so as not to wake Bill's sleeping parents, and fished a tin of cookies from the kitchen. 

Three weeks or so later, Ben had pridefully group-called them over Skype to announce Columbia University's positive reply to his architecture major. Over the call, they'd all laughed as Eddie screamed _ 'that's a motherfucking ivy league school Benny' _ , To which Richie had replied ' _ shame I'm not going there Eds, after all the experience I have. _ ' 

It was like a domino effect, how Mike had gotten his letter from Syracuse within the next passing hour. While Ben was searching for apartments in New York, while Richie was staging his newest set to Bill and Bev, while Eddie was fixing his car in the garage, and while Stan was studying for his last set of finals in high school, they got their next call. Stan remembered vividly how Mike’s face showed up, stretched with glee, as he held up his acceptance for their anthropology major to the screen once they had all answered. 

And how a few days later Beverly, on her turn to drive Mike and Richie to school, (Bill drove Eddie, Ben, and Stan that day. They switched off. Back in highschool, they had a groupchat solely reserved for deciding who would drive who the coming day.) had admantly protested to either Mike or Richie taking the passenger seat. When they’d asked why, she’d merely held up the letter from the Fashion Institute of Technology for her double major in fashion merchandising and fashion apparel design.

It had taken a hustle, their road trip out to New York (Eddie, Bev, and Bill loathed planes. Eddie and Richie got the privilege of driving their cars to New York. But Mike, Stan, Bev, and Ben had all sold their cars. The money helped pay for the trip as a whole. Nowadays, they each had a car with the exception of Bill, who took public transport and was too easily distracted on the road, anyway.) and then the transition of switching seven people from a two-bedroom hotel room into a able-bodied house. They’d all, with fair coercing from Stan in particular, started saving funds for college at the start of their sophomore year. That money too, helped the in the beginning. After all, a house with six bedrooms cost a dreadful amount. Mike, Stan, and Richie’s parents volunteered to cover some of the pay too at first. 

The first three weeks of their college years went rather smooth. All of their colleges were decently close together, except Syracuse. Syracuse was at least three hours away from their house and any of their given colleges surrounding the Brooklyn area. Yet Mike Hanlon, the profoundly hard-working adonis of the household, made the commute everyday without fail. Though, he only had classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. 

Beverly didn’t have class on Monday, so she tagged along with Mike on those days, and spent a day in the city of Syracuse while Mike attended class. Then she drove him home. The schedule stuck, and soon after that, Eddie moved his single Thursday class- economics, to Tuesday in favor of joining Mike on Thursdays. 

-

Stan flickers in and out of his head, having trouble dislodging himself from the fond memory of Bev and Mike coming home last week. He’d had a stressful day- coming off of an intense lecture about individual investment booted by core business course. It was just past six-thirty, and he was typing up a chart while Richie drilled a monologue in his room. The incessant chatter of- Romeo and Juliet? Oh, yeah. Richie was taking his mandatory Shakespeare course first, and boy did they all hear about it. He’d slipped ill-fitting uses of ‘thou’ and ‘hence’ in every conversation since he started the class. By now, it had slipped into Richie’s already scattered vernacular.

Well, the pitchy strains of Richie prattling on about ‘the chariot of empty hazelnut” were slowly and surely getting on Stan’s nerves, not to mention the surplus of homework he was balancing. Plus his preparation for a set of job interviews. He was just one more mispronounced ‘o’re’ away from texting Richie to call it a night when Mike walks through the door. 

He was clad in a yellow sweater that Stan hadn’t seen before, and Beverly was just behind him with a bookbag slung over her shoulder. 

“You made this, Bev?” 

“It was just a test-run for my project. Do you really like it that much?” 

Mike smiles at her, fingers tracing the perfectly-trimmed sleeves. The fabric looked soft, Stan thought. Perhaps merino wool or cotton. “I love it,” He says. “Thanks for letting me have it.” 

“Of course, Mikey,” Beverly replies before setting her bag down on the dining room table. She meets Stan’s eyes over his laptop and he stops typing to blink in acknowledgement. 

And she just gave him the softest smile, all pomegranate lips and honest eyes. Mike leans over her shoulder, and sees Stan there too. He grins wide, revealing bright white teeth and beaming skin. Stan feels his lips quirk in response, and sets back to work feeling a little lighter than before. 

-

Sitting here in solitude, Stan suddenly wished he had that same giddiness inside him again like he did that night. His eyes droop and he lets them stay there before opening them again. Movement catches his eye though, before it can land on his computer screen again.

Bill’s there, with his head poked through the door. His hair fell into his eyes, still otherwise short but growing choppy enough that he always looked to be in a state of aesthetically-pleasing disarray. His lips curve upwards. 

“How long have you been w-working?” 

Stan checks his phone. He’d opened his books and laptop as soon as he got home that day around 3:00. “Five hours,” Stan says. Currently, it’s just turned 8:00. 

Bill’s mouth drops open, eyes flickering from him to his bed, a uniform array of notes, textbooks, and index cards, back to him. “You’re t-telling me you’ve been at t-t-this for f-five hours?” 

Stan shrugs. 

“C’mon, you’re l-legally obligated to c-c-come downstairs. Mike made dinner.” 

-

It takes some conviction, but in another twenty minutes, Stan is making his way down the stairs, purple NYU hoodie thrown on over his jeans in place of his fleece button-up. Gathered at the table are Bill and Ben. They appear to be locked in idle conversation while Mike finishes up dinner. 

There was a calendar on the wall next to the doorway into the kitchen, and on it was the schedule of who would be expected to make dinner every night. Last night, it was Richie’s night. Richie always took Mondays because he got out of class early and insisted he be given time to  _ produce only The Best meals for his comrades.  _ Though, ramen didn’t take more than thirty minutes to make. And Richie always made ramen. Always. Sometimes with extras- spices, cheese, one time he’d persuaded them to eat  _ cheeto dust  _ in it. If he tried hard enough, Stan could remember how Eddie had pushed his bowl away after one lick of his fork, and how Bill had stared Richie down as he finished every last bite. 

Tomorrow night- Wednesday night, was takeout night, so they were excused from thinking up meals. Beverly had already planned to order them pizza, he’d heard from Ben this morning. 

Stan takes a seat next to Bill, across from Ben, who’s in the middle of describing one of his assignments. He observes the hodgepodge of flannel between them- Bill’s a green, blue, and grey and Ben’s a lavender and white. It complimented them well, he thinks passively. The green brought Bill’s blue eyes into higher definition, and the soft array of color on Ben’s shoulders made his dark hair look infinitely less harsh. 

“Hey, Stan, you here?” Ben’s looking at him, concern on his face. 

Stan sits up, aware of his posture. He tended to hunch when he was tired. That’s all it was- he was a bit spacey tonight. He nods, not quite feeling ready to break out of his mostly non-verbal streak. 

“I remember you had a lecture today, how was that?” 

Bill rolls his eyes. “I bet he’d be more cuh-cuh-coherent if he bothered to take a f-fucking break once and a w-while.” 

That’s enough persuasion for Stan to spit out a ‘look who’s talking.’ Then he looks back at Ben. “It was fine. Thank you, Ben.” He adds, a few seconds of after-thought later, “taking notes for three hours straight is always a pleasure.” 

The sarcasm in his voice was blatant, and Bill and Ben chuckle at his expense until Mike emerges from the kitchen. The three of them look up, all comically eager. See, Mike was christened the best cook in the house mid-way through their first week when he made them all meatloaf and biscuits. To this day, Stan thinks it was one of the best meals he ever had. Since, Mike’s dinner night had practically become a holiday. 

Tonight, the chef was serving chicken with cooked broccoli and artichokes. The smell wafting from the plates was divine. And also divine was the way Mike’s arm grazes Stan’s cheek as he sets down the plates. His shirt was so soft- Stan almost wanted to- 

He shakes his head. Tired. Tired. 

Mike takes a seat next to Ben, and watches, content, as the three of them scoop food onto their plates. Bill makes an embarrassing noise over the chicken in his mouth, and Ben simply nods. Seeing the positive reactions, Stan cuts himself a bite. To nobody’s surprise, it’s delicious. Not dry, plenty hot but not burning, and rich in taste. 

He swallows. “Mike,” then chews up some artichoke as quick as he can, “you could have minored in culinary arts.” Bill, muffled by more chicken, tries to say  _ mhmm!  _

A gratified, exuberant laugh comes from Mike. “Maybe I should.” 

Ben twirls his fork as he works through a mouthful. Then speaks. “You would be the best in the class. I bet you’d be offered a job on the first day. Then you can come out of college as a history teacher and a chef.” 

Stan notes Mike’s blush, which is frankly adorable. He stops chewing, mulling over that thought. The tint of red looks more magenta in the dim lighting, and reminds Stan of the time he had to do a project on Dionysus in 9th grade- how the greek god was often associated with grapes, and how the cardinal grapes were the same color painting Mike’s cheeks. 

He catches himself on that thought. “What would we be at college for right now, if it wasn’t this? If Bill wasn’t a writer and if Ben wasn’t an architect?” 

Ben hums thoughtfully. “I think it would be nice to be a poet,” he says. 

“Don’t y-you steal my gig, Haystack.” Bill lunges across the table to give Ben a noogie. Ben dodges, takes his hand, and sets it back on the dark spruce table. Bill’s eyes follow their hands for a split second. 

“Okay, Bill. What would you be?” 

“Dunno,” Bill says, more focused on balancing all three components of the dinner on his fork and shoving it into his mouth before it had the chance to fall. 

“He’d be a detective- criminal investigator, guys. Remember when Georgie went missing?” 

Ben points at Stan. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Dude, you didn’t sleep for two days until the cops found him.” 

“It’s no juh-joke when a party clown t-tries to abduct your little brother,” Bill says. 

“Jot that down as a book title,” Stan suggests. 

Mike gives him a strange look and breathes a laugh. 

“That really was weird,” Ben says. 

They all nod. 

“Hey, how’s Georgie doing anyways, Bill? He’s in middle school now right?” 

Bill makes a gesture with his hand and hums. “He’s doing fine, getting good geometry and art, apparently. His eleventh birthday is coming up soon, maybe he can come up and visit. He loves you guys.” 

A buoyant  _ aww  _ sound comes from Mike. “He’s welcome anytime.” 

“Keep him away from Richie, though,” Stan warns. “We don’t want a repeat of the  _ what’s up fuckers  _ accident.” 

Ben giggles stupidly for a second, just holding back from spitting out his chicken. Stan treasures that. It’s so rare to see Ben let loose- unceremoniously relax like he was now. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.” 

Bill was red. “I n-never l-l-lived that down.” 

Mike grabs Bill’s hand- the one he wasn’t preoccupied holding a fork with. “How’s speech therapy going?” He asks. Bill goes a little stiff. He hated talking about his speech impediment, but for some reason if Mike was asking, he would open up. Self-consciously, he looks at Stan and Ben before replying. 

“I-it’s going good. The university c-covers it and the t-therapist is really nice.”

Something in Stan stiffens. “What’s the therapist like?” 

“S-sh-she’s-”

“-A prestigious, gallant, courteous, gentleman is what I am! You’re an ungrateful ass, have you considered that? Whew-wee, I take you on a date and this is how you repay me?” The door closes loudly enough to startle them all, and the tell-tale bickering coming from the other side disturbs the peace. Or maybe Stan had done that already. He’ll never know. 

Eddie drops into the empty seat next to Mike, rolling his eyes all the way. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. He walked into a Carl’s Jr. so he could take a shit and we had some fries.”

“You wound me, Eds.” Richie leans against the counter, dropping his keys into the dish there. “How are my four humble hombres this evening?” 

They all reply, and Richie sits on Stan’s other side. He picks at his chicken, and Stan slaps his hand away, but not before he can snag one piece. He winks at Stan before triumphantly placing it on his tongue and chewing. “Feisty, Staniel,” he says when Stan reaches out and captures his hand when he tries for a second serving. 

“Where’s Bev?” Eddie was standing with his hands on the back of Mike’s chair. 

“Oh, she texted me earlier.” Ben fishes his phone out of his pocket, then reads from it. “She’ll be out for a while, she’s staying late at the workshop to finish some clothes.” 

“Ask her what time she’ll be home.” 

Ben looks at Stan and nods before typing. 

He looks surprised when his phone vibrates immediately. “Around eleven.” 

“You know, Benny, if you stay up long enough, Santa might arrive  _ around eleven  _ with some treats. Jingle, jingle, you catch my drift?” 

Ben maintains eye contact with Richie as he steadily raises his middle finger. Though, Stan would be blind if he didn’t spot the pink lemonade blush spreading across Ben’s face. 

They laugh. 

“I have work to finish,” Stan says suddenly. “Goodnight.”

The slightest decline of Bill’s smile at Stan's exit follows him to bed. 

-

The other thing that followed him to bed was a long time coming. It just so happened to fall on the last Tuesday of September, in the midst of Stan’s own confuddling, before-sleep internal monologue. Tonight’s was surrounding just why he’d gotten so possessive over Bill when he mentioned his speech therapist, and why Mike and Ben looked  _ so good  _ today in particular. Not for long though. Once he managed to push those topics away, he went over tomorrow’s agenda. 

_ One. Take daily dose of Zoloft. Two. Make coffee. Three. Shower. Four. Brush your teeth and your hair and then dress. Five. Have coffee and toast, eggs too, if somebody makes them. Maybe bacon, but that’s not kosher and since you don’t have the time to go to temple, you’d better adhere to something. Six. _

“Richie!” 

“Thanks, Eddie. Really, thanks. But I think you should keep-mmph,  _ shit. _ ” 

Stan’s phone goes off. He rolls over and turns the light on. 

_ MIKE: Are Richie and Eddie..? _

_ STANLEY: Happening?  _

_ STANLEY: I guess so.  _

_ MIKE: Do they really think we can’t hear that?  _

_ STANLEY: They probably don't care. You know how long they’ve been skirting around each other. This was bound to happen.  _

The pull between the two of them- Eddie and Richie, had always been stark and present. As children, Stan had watched the two of them schedule sleepovers and more so with each other than anyone else and adopt their own language of inside jokes. Then, as teenagers, he’d taken into account the way Richie’s eyes lingered just a bit too long, or Eddie smiled at Richie’s obnoxious attention and had to remind himself to frown and roll his eyes. From there, it had only elevated. So in short, this event was inevitable. 

_ MIKE: True. Goodnight, Stan. Sleep well.  _

Stan harbored one complaint, though. That Eddie could get siren-sung into Richie’s bed a hint quieter next time, and not on a school night. (And  _ god,  _ not to the song  _ 9 to 5  _ by Dolly Parton. He could hear it through Richie’s walls playing for the second time on loop.) Especially not on a school night where he had credit analysis, intermediate accounting, and fundamentals of financial technology classes the next day. 

_ STANLEY: Night, Mike. You too.  _

-

To his dismay, every agonizing joke about Richie’s dick though their teenage years wasn’t exaggerated. At least, as indicated by Eddie, they weren’t. Stanley wakes up on Wednesday morning forty-two minutes before his 6:00 AM alarm goes off. 

He was a light sleeper and a recovering insomniac due to the lovely woes of the public school system and a plague of night terrors when he was around twelve, but never did he wish to sleep as much as he did with his head between both sides of his pillow in a pathetic attempt to stifle Richie’s dirty talk and Eddie’s  _ enthusiastic responses.  _ The thing sleep for him was that when it was shifted, it was  _ shifted.  _ The entire night plus day after is swayed, essentially. 

So with an enthusiastically unenthusiastic smile at nothing but the telephone wires outside his window, Stan gets up and painstakingly makes his bed. Cheap fitted sheets were a joy, weren’t they? His favorite part was when they actually managed to stay attached to his mattress. Unfortunately, seldom was the day Stan woke up to sheets he didn’t have to adjust. 

He stands blankly in his room for a moment, the lack of daylight putting him off. Make coffee, right. He’s not usually up this early. Stan leaves his room. The hallway is tranquil and quiet, and Stan stays there for some time. He eyes the photos on the bulletin they hung on the wall between all of their doors. There’s mostly polaroids, taken by Bev, Mike, or Eddie. The three of them had been given those cameras for Christmas from Bill. Stan remembers fondly how his friends adopted his holiday as well. Last Hanukkah, his friends had each gotten to light one candle of the menorah under the amused eye of Mr. Uris. They insisted on staying with him for seven of the eight nights. Eddie went first, nervously handling the lighter with the hands of a boy who was over-coddled by his mother, and Mike second to last, all the while wrapping an arm around Stan and smiling down at him with the candlelight caught in his eyes. Stan himself lit it last, grinning earnestly at his friends as their faces wavered in the farsighted eye of the flame. On the final night, Stan watched his dad do so. 

One of the polaroids was of Stan sitting on his old bed with Ben, Mike, and Bill squeezed next to him. Richie’s head poked out from under the bed, and Beverly sat criss-cross applesauce beside him. They were all smiling brightly at Eddie behind the camera. Another, his personal favorite, was of Ben jumping off the ledge at the Quarry. It was artfully taken- likely by Bev or Mike, as Eddie had chronically shaky hands- and Ben looked somewhat like an icarus- or an angel, frozen in time and space as he descended from the sky into the water. In the foreground, Richie was waving at whoever was behind the camera and Bill was looking at something in the distance. There was also one of Richie’s seventeenth birthday, of Richie wearing two different pairs of sunglasses- one neon pink, and one with money signs across the eyes- and holding a red solo cup that he bought for his own party, while grinning at the camera. Behind him, Stan was seen drinking his cup while Eddie and Bev watched, holding cups of their own. 

He still wasn’t awake, but the pleasant stream of memories in his conscience brought him down to the kitchen in good spirits. Ben was already there sipping at chamomile tea and skimming a textbook labelled  _ Modern Architecture Since 1900.  _ He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of light grey sweats. Evidently, he’d just finished his morning jog. 

At his arrival, Ben turns around from where he was leaning with his elbows on the counter over his book. He already has his trademark smile on his face- a little like Richie’s in the way both of their eyes crinkle at the edges, but Ben’s twinkle just a bit. Stan wouldn’t ever admit it if asked directly, but Ben’s smile was easy to adore. 

“You know, that’s not good posture for your back,” Stan says in lieu of a normal good morning. The smile on Ben’s face drops into something sheepish. Ben sips more of his tea before he talks, and even then, leisurely finishes the paragraph he was presumably reading before Stan entered. Then he flips the book closed with careful hands, and turns so his back is pressed against the counter rather than his chest. 

That’s one of the reasons why Stan enjoyed Ben’s company. Ben always gave his undivided attention to whatever he was doing or whoever he was talking to. Not like Stan, who knew that most of the time when other people were talking, he was miles away in his own head contemplating schedules and second-checking everything he could think of- or like Mike, who liked to multitask with his time, so he’d be cleaning or cooking or reading while carrying out a conversation. Or Bill, possibly, who usually had to rehearse his words in his mouth before he said them, checking the stutters at the door as often as he could. Even when they still slipped out though, it was better than when he was a kid, trying to match up to Eddie’s mile-a-minute speech with his own impediment. 

“Why are you up this early? Ben asks softly. 

Stan stares, hoping to communicate the point without having to speak it. 

An ‘O’ takes over Ben’s face. He goes red. “Got it,” he says. “Want something to eat?” 

“Toast?” 

Ben’s already reaching for the fridge. Stan supposes it’s fair since the morning before he’d had a rush of productivity and made everyone pancakes. 

While the toaster is ticking, Stan takes a seat at the table. Ben follows. 

“Did you get some sleep, at least?” 

“Enough,” Stan replies. He sincerely hopes that statement holds true. 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Ti- _

Ben rustles around in his gym bag on one of the chairs. He pulls out a shirt and shucks it on. It’s fitted, black with Columbia’s logo printed across the chest. Stan isn’t sure if it’s better or worse- was it a kinder torture to see the bare skin, or to know it’s there in stunning detail but behind a thin layer of fabric?

Hm. “And you?” 

Ben looks startled for a hot second. “I plugged in my earbuds and listened to New Kids On The Block until I fell asleep,” he says.

You got the right idea, Ben, Stan thinks. Oh, coffee. Geez. He gets to his feet without warning just as the toaster goes off. 

He takes the toast out, butters it, and commits to the intricate ritual that is making simple black coffee on the ornate, overelaborate machine they had. It had initially been Bill’s idea to buy, because it  _ looked cool,  _ but it blew up in their faces when they realized none of them had any clue how to use it. 

They were still learning, Stan tells himself as the coffee sputters rapidly into Richie’s dumb mug. It was in an old thrift store Bev had dragged them to, and was grossly neon yellow with black bubbly letters spelling  _ chompa chompa  _ across the front. But did he still drink from it? Yes, of course. As much as Stan was irritated by it, he still acknowledged it was useful. In fact, his contact photo for Richie was Richie holding up the mug on the day he found it, wearing a white tee with the word  _ soupboy  _ on it in tiny print. God, he was so stupid, Stan thought with all the love in the world. 

After the coffee and toast is done, he meets Ben back in the dining room. 

“You have intro to architecture and woodshop today, don’t you?” 

Ben polishes his tea and puts the baby blue mug on the table. “That and an obligatory art history lecture. I might come home a bit late like Bev did yesterday. There’s a 3D printer room opening tonight and I want to check it out.” 

“Sounds good to me, have fun. What are you gonna make, Benny?” The nickname slips from his mouth before Stan could fully consent, and he inspects Ben for any reaction over the brim of his mug.

There isn’t one. No, he’s not disappointed. 

“I don’t know, I’ve never used one before. But I’ll show you later tonight if you’re up.” 

Stan smiles. “I will be.” 

“Have a good day, Stan. I’m out the door in five,” Ben says, already grabbing his book of the counter and collecting the papers he’d strewn across the table. 

“You too, see you tonight.”

Stan takes Ben’s mug and rinses it out before placing it in the dishwasher. Then places his own plate and mug into the minimal unoccupied space in the sink.

The sink is teeming with dishes- congested with plastic plates and a pile of silverware near the drain. If Stan squints, he can see smudges of food lingering that the water didn’t reach. He forces back the slight nausea that had risen and does his best to ignore it. Eddie’s turn to wash them is tonight, and Eddie was a stickler about organization just like Stan. It would probably be taken care of by the time Stan got home. 

The thought eases him. Stan scrolls through his phone as Ben gets ready in the background. No new notifications beside the steam of never-ending emails. He used to be studious about checking them the first week, but by now he’d given up, learning it was mostly spam. At the same time the embodiment of a headache stumbles into the kitchen, Stan’s phone goes off. 

Firstly, he’s surprised to see that it’s now 6:00. 

_ EDDIE: Richie’s coming downstairs, srry  _

_ EDDIE: He’s gonna brag about what happened last night _

_ EDDIE: Whatever he tells you, it isn’t true  _

Richie hadn’t spoken yet, busy sticking his head into the cupboard in search for Froot Loops. He found them quickly, and made himself a bowl. He struts to the table, well-aware of Ben and Stan’s eyes on him burning holes in the back of his neck, which was littered with purple bruises. He grins at them, namely Ben’s feverish reaction to his appearance. When his eyes move to lay on Stan, he’s already turned his back in favor of gazing out the kitchen window. He looks at the succulents there- Mike’s. No way he’s going to let Richie see the way he wants to examine the marks on his neck. And today, because he’s ridden with mostly sleepless conceptions, he’ll warrant the thinking of the thoughts he’d been trying to avoid since high school. Freely in his head, Stan recounts to himself with clarity just what thoughts had been pestering him steadfastly since the seven of them moved in together. 

Because of course Stan knew that there would never be another group of people in his life who would make him want to wax poetic so badly. It’s not like it was hard- with Ben and Mike being two of the most gentle beings in the cosmos, and Richie being tall and lanky but never using that advantage for bad. If anything, the way he leered over them was comfortable, not intimidating. Eddie’s spitfire quality had allured Stan since day one, and maybe somewhere deep in his brain he wished he’d gotten to be the one to get to Eddie first. Though, he really wasn’t sure if he was more envious of him or Richie. Bev too. The first time he saw her- skidding into a quiet pharmacy the day Ben had been attacked by one of the bullies at their school, for medical supplies and he’d seen eye to eye the pristine, red-haired picture of beauty. She used to make him nervous, but over time their friendship had melded into Friday night face-masks with Eddie, and casual remarks about fashion, for which the two shared interest. Then of course, there was Bill, who Stan had fallen into bed with once or twice over their senior year. None of them talked about it now, because when their dalliance had ended, it had ended with cold stares and stiff body language- only within the past two months or so had they gotten back into the groove of casual friendship. But their closeness had never faded, it hadn’t even been tampered by the changes. Stan remembered it all, and he knew Bill did too. How easily it had all happened, and how comfortable it was. Then Stan had resisted Bill’s idea of calling it a relationship, and hence it had wrapped up in a box Stan often found himself wanting to open again. These thoughts of his, he titled the Pandora’s Box. Wasn’t it fitting? He cracked it open once and a while, just to see if his feelings had changed. They had not, and he didn’t think they ever would. He’d learn to move past it someday- make his parents proud and marry a woman when he’d landed a well-paying job as an accountant. They’d all keep in touch- meet on holidays, but he didn’t allow himself to think about a future where that wasn’t the premise. 

A voice rouses him, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Stan the Man, you will not believe what I-” 

“I’m sure I won’t, so don’t bother telling me,” Stan says shortly. “I’m glad you finally won the prize, and I’m happy for you two. But you kicked my sleep schedule into oblivion, so I’d ask you to wait at least one office day before you try to speak with me.”

“I was that good, huh,” Richie says to himself. Then looks at Ben. “Was I that good, Haystack?” 

Ben, wise-up like Stan, also refuses to pitch in his two-cents. He just shrugs his backpack over his shoulder with a quiet laugh. Richie watches him, eyes stuck on his every move. 

“You’re going to class like that? Oooh boy, the ladies are gonna be all over that one. Architect genius with the body of a god.. cute, cute, cute!” 

“Shit. Beep-beep, Richie,” Ben says before dropping his bag and bolting up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. 

“Do you have to flirt with everyone?” 

Richie’s eyes glide back to Stan so quickly Stan feels phantom pains in Richie’s neck for him. “Just part of my charm, sorry if you can’t handle it Stanthony. Get you hot under the collar?” 

“Ice cold, actually.” 

“Thou hast so cruelly hurt me, tis it is only six-fifteen on a Wednesday morning,” Richie deadpans. 

“Sucks to suck, Romeo.” 

“Thank you!” 

Stan raises his eyebrow at Richie. “Thank you?” 

“Yeah, thanks. Eddie told me I was one of the servants.” 

“Because they’re illiterate and dense?” Stan knew that wasn’t true. Of all of them, Richie was the one to score straight A’s with ease. Stan was second, but only because he studied for hours on end. He’d never even seen Richie linger on schoolwork for more than thirty minutes. Behind the layer of humor, Richie was just as brilliant as the rest of them. Perhaps if he showed it outwardly more often, they’d stop calling him Trashmouth. Alas, he didn’t. 

“No, because they’re funny, Stan. And I’m funny. But you said it yourself, I’m a Romeo.” 

“You’re a ditz,” Stan replies, smile on his face. Okay, he liked the banter. “Besides, you’re a Mercutio. You’re learning his monologue. That should be obvious.” 

“I didn’t choose to memorize and translate that three-page piece of shit! Here’s how it goes: I’m Romeo, Eddie’s Juliet, Bill is Mercutio, You’re Friar Laurance, Bev is the Nurse, Ben is the Prince, and Mike is Benvolio.” 

“You couldn’t be more wrong. You’re Mercutio, I’m smarter than Friar Luarence, but there isn’t anyone better, so I’ll take it.” Richie beams, but Stan raises a finger before continuing. “Ben is Romeo and Bill is Tybalt.” 

“Woah there, you’re saying Bill would kill me?” 

“I think any of us would jump at the chance.” 

Richie barks out a laugh. “Touche. But you’re also implying Ben’s in love with Eddie, then.” 

Ben walks in, freshly showered and changed into jeans and a faded bluish grey shirt. “I’m in love with Eddie?” 

Richie points at Stan. “You heard it from him first folks,” he says, voice changing into that of a gameshow host. 

Stan rolls his eyes, flipping the bird before going upstairs to shower. Behind him, Richie asks hypothetically, how long would it take Ben to build a life-sized statue of Danny Devito. 

On his way up the stairs, he bumps into Bill, who’s looking soft from sleep. His eyes are half-lidded, and he’s wrapped in flannel pajama pants wearing a hoodie that Stan was sure belonged to Mike, if orange  _ SYRACUSE S  _ across the grey fabric is anything to go by. Bill waves at him, and Stan has the pleasure of watching Bill’s content expression shift into a gawk when he sees how Richie’s faring- hickeys and all. 

-

Another six hours go by until Stan is released from his first two classes. Next up: fundamentals of financial technology. His break is around fifteen minutes, so he fiddles with his phone in the meantime. 

There’s seven messages. He responds accordingly.

_ EDDIE: I’m not Juliet, asshole  _

_ STANLEY: You sounded like it last night.  _

_ EDDIE: read; 12:34 PM _

_ - _

_ BEN to STANLEY and RICHIE: i’m in love with eddie??? spare context please im begging you _

_ RICHIE to STANLEY and BEN: Oh, Eddie’s Juliet and your Romeo according to Stan  _

_ BEN to STANLEY and RICHIE: *you’re  _

_ RICHIE to STANLEY and BEN: you’re mom hanscom _

-

_ BEVERLY: What pizza do u want tonight bitch  _

_ STANLEY: Whatever everyone else wants. I’m not picky, Bev. _

_ BEVERLY: Yeah but sometimes the tomato sauce or cheese or whatever isn’t kosher and ik you’ve been trying to eat kosher since you left  _

_ STANLEY: Thank you for considering that. I can let it slide tonight.  _

_ BEVERLY: Okay :) _

-

_ BILL: what the ufck happened with richie ???  _

_ STANLEY: Him and Eddie had sex, Bill. Did you not hear it how loud they were?  _

_ BILL: … No I took melatonin last night to sleep and it knocked me out.  _

_ STANLEY: Some of us aren’t that lucky.  _

_ BILL: Richie’s lucky. Eddie’s lucky. They got laid.  _

Stan doesn’t know how to tackle that one, so he puts his phone away and goes to class early after texting Mike, since he didn’t see him that morning. 

_ STANLEY: Sleep ok?  _

\- 

Stan drops his belongings into the passenger seat of his car and plops down into the front seat. His head is a whirlwind of assets, expenses, and income statements. He’d made headway at school, stayed hydrated enough, and kept in touch with everyone of his friends, but still something felt wrong. He didn’t know what, but right now he was glad to be heading home.

-

Come 6:00, the pizza had arrived and Beverly, Eddie, Richie, and himself claimed pieces of their own. While Eddie was telling Richie the multitude of reasons why he shouldn’t use  _ Escape  _ by Rupert Holmes as the dramatic monologue for his final, Beverly was peeling two slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza from the box to bring to Bill. Supposedly, he’d been procrastinated on writing an essay on nineteenth-century romanticism and postmodernism and was cramming it all in tonight. Stan had walked through the door at five-thirteen on the dot, and from her spot already on the couch sewing what looked to be an actual cloud of a jacket, Bev had informed him that Bill had been writing in his room for three hours. 

“That’s literally so stupid, Trashmouth.” 

“What about it? You don’t like  _ making love at midnight?  _ Because I beg to differ!” 

Eddie’s face goes beet red and Stan idly imagines smoke pouring out of his nose. “You’re gonna fail your final and get kicked out of college and die on the streets if you use that song.” 

Richie plugs his ears, closes his eyes, and sings off-key. “ _ Do you like pina coladas? And getting caught in the rain-”  _

“ _ FEEL THE RAIN ON YOUR SKIN!”  _ Natasha Bedingfield’s  _ Unwritten  _ blasts from Eddie’s phone and Richie stops, eyes annoyed and grin fading. 

“Is that Spotify premium, you fucker?” 

“This is YouTube, Rich. I don’t actually listen to this shi-” 

“Guys! Eddie’s sucking up our funds by using Spotify premium! That is far too boujee for our household!”

Enter Beverly, red hair tied out of her face with a bright green scrunchie. She takes one look around the dining room and takes her plate- only carrying breadsticks, up to her room. Stan resists the strong inclination to follow her. 

“I have premium too, Richie,” Stan says. 

If looks could kill, the eyes behind Richie’s prescription frames could be considered death rays. “I can’t believe you all let me listen to JC Penny ads for years! Do you know how tired I am? I physically cannot take another Trojan condom ad.” Eddie and Stan are in hysterics, wiping at their eyes in the midst of their laughter. “Get any good chucks out of that, dickwads?” Richie huffs and takes a seat again, having gotten up in the middle of his tangent.

Then Stan recovers, tucking the one insistent curl that always fell in his face back behind his ear. He sees Richie eye Eddie with ridiculously fondness in his eyes, and then lean down and press a kiss onto the crown of his head. Eddie softens then too, looking back at Richie with the same degree of endearment, feral behavior stripped away. 

A surge of  _ something  _ unagreeable floods Stan, and he finishes off the crust of his pizza before going to the kitchen to dispose of his plate. 

What he expects is not what he is greeted with. The colorful plastic magnets on the fridge spell in colorful letters,  _ DO THE DISHES.  _ And yet, they clog the sink in all of their soiled glory. Usually, Stan would only be a little on edge about it, maybe issue a brash reminder or do it himself. Tonight? He’s thoroughly infuriated. It reaches the height of his patience- and everything compiles into one steaming mess. The tile is too cold on his bare feet, and his jeans haven’t fit right since he put them on. His neck is just a little too itchy with hair he needs to have trimmed. The lightbulb in their kitchen must be fizzing out, because it’s been flickering on and off on and off and on for the past thirty minutes or so. Oh, and most of all, Eddie didn’t wash the fucking dishes. They’re disgusting, smeared with crushed vegetables and chicken bits, and the ones from the day before, harboring cold ramen that he can taste in his throat. It makes him gag. 

Stan stomps as much as he can with bare feet back into the dining room. Eddie’s got Richie by the jaw, liplocked in their own world. Richie’s glasses are falling down his nose, and Eddie’s collar isn’t all the way down. The pizza box isn’t all the way closed. 

He hadn’t noticed before, but his breathing had started to speed up. 

Stan claps. Their heads snap to him. 

He does them a small kindness by trying to keep his voice level. “Eddie, you haven’t done the dishes.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow. The pink had already drained from his face, and Richie was clinging to the back of his chair looking somewhere between the other two people in the room. 

“Sorry? I’ll do them tomorrow, Stan. I have stuff to do later.” 

Stan’s fists clench. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Please. 

“What’s stuff?  _ Richie _ ? Is he stuff?” 

“Hey,” Richie says, alert now. “Don’t bring me into this. This sounds like a Staniel-Eds issue to sort out. I’m going upstairs.” 

With the wrinkled tails of his charcoal Hawaian shirt -splattered with asymmetrical salmon pink flowers- flying behind him, Richie swiftly ascends the stairs with one last look over his shoulder. 

“Why do you care so much anyway?” Eddie’s playing with his hands and not making eye contact, as if he knows the answer. 

“I don’t! It’s just, someone might throw a fit tomorrow night when they see how full the sink is.” 

“That’s you. You’re throwing a fit right now.” 

“A reasonable fit. Eddie, if you don’t do them I will.” 

“Sounds good,” Eddie says as he gets up out of his seat. “Don’t forget this plate.” He then takes his plate, already practically clean, of course, since Eddie hated crumbs, and shoves it in Stan’s arms. 

For once, Stanley is the one standing slack-jawed. He isn’t sure if he’s pissed, offended, or overwhelmed. Come to think of it, he just might be all three. One hundred doesn’t divide by three though, but it does by four. So what else is going on in his head? Ah, right. No matter how angry he can get, that doesn’t change the undeniable fact that he’s still in love with all of his friends. (i.e. in love with the sassy ball of stubbornness that is Eddie Kaspbrak.) That’s four- pissed, offended, overwhelmed, and in a love he isn’t sure he wants to fall out of or be suffocated by. 

The thermostat seemed to have simultaneously been too cold and too hot. Stan thinks he can hear the stairs creak under Eddie’s feet even though they’re carpeted and would muffle the sound. The acrid stench of pepperoni invades his nostrils and fries his brain. God, Stan wants to peel his skin off. He rubs at the tender skin of his wrists as the house seems to wage war on him. Furthermore, one of the plastic letters falls from the fridge. He spins around. It’s  _ T,  _ so now the fridge spells  _ DO HE DISHES.  _

And that’s not gramatically correct and it looks so stupid that Stan puts his head in his hands- despite how much he hates touching his face because it caused acne-, and laughs. 

Their household, in a grand total of three and a half weeks, has witnessed many a breakdown. First had been Eddie, who needed to be soothed by Ben when he was worrying about architectural dangers. Ben, who was actually an architect, had reassured him that it was perfectly safe, even after Eddie insisted he sleep on the couch and never go upstairs lest the stairs collapse underneath him. Then Bill’s  _ I went to Boston College on the first day instead of Brooklyn College  _ freakout, which admittedly had been funny. Not even Richie could make a mistake like that. Speaking of Richie, his had been the most recent, and was accordingly named Richie’s Dance Fiasco. He’d been assigned a project to choreograph a dance to a song of his choice that reflected his personality to ‘get to know his class.’ Richie, Mike, and Bev had pranced around the living room to  _ Bust A Move  _ by Young MC from 11:00 PM to 3:00 AM while Stan, Bill, Ben, and Eddie watched. Eddie heckled them, and Ben actually tried to offer his services from when he’d been dragged into a hip hop class by Bev once, while Stan and Bill watched amusedly. 

This moment, however, wasn’t amusing at all. The kitchen light was flickering more not, and for longer periods of time. Stan could see it out of the corners of his eyes. He closed them and did his best to take deep breaths. His OCD hadn’t been this bad in years. 

“Stan! Stan, did you take your medicine this morning?” Bev’s slid herself between him and the fridge, with the fucking  _ T  _ magnet between her pointer and middle finger. It matches her nails- they’re both a flamboyant red. 

_ His medicine,  _ oh shit. 

He meant it when he said his sleep schedule was easily  _ fucked up.  _

Stan nods, and she sticks the  _ T  _ back where it belongs. He notices that he’s not breathing so shallow anymore. He can feel his fingers and toes. But the dishes still aren’t taken care of. Beverly persists. “Can I hold your hand?” 

He holds his out for hers to take. Usually he tended to isolate himself, wallow in solitude until he was feeling in one piece again. Tonight, Beverly’s interlude was welcome. 

Her skin is soft, unblemished as far as he’s concerned, and she grips him tightly and leads him up the stairs. 

As he’s finally dry-swallowing the pills- Zoloft, 50mg- he can spot Richie looking impishly around Stan’s door frame. Eddie, over Richie’s shoulder, wears guilt on his face, and now that Beverly’s here, now that he has the reminder he’ll stop wanting to sink into a hole in the ground soon, he wants to apologize. He shouldn’t have snapped. 

Beverly rubs his back.

Richie whispers something to Eddie. Eddie leaves. Richie enters.

“Heya, Stan The Man.” 

Stan raises a hand in a wave. 

Because he knows them so well, and because Richie widens his eyes over his glasses, he can tell Beverly is glaring at Richie behind Stan’s back. 

“Why didn’t you take it this morning?” Beverly asks. 

He doesn’t want to say it in front of Richie. He seems to notice. 

“It’s okay, I solemnly swear I won’t make fun of you.” Richie crosses his heart as he speaks. It makes Stan smile. Good. His ears have also stopped burning, and since he’s in his room now, there’s no lights flickering overhead. 

He inhales. “I couldn’t sleep last night and it threw off my schedule- I didn’t think of it. I just forgot.” 

Richie doesn't show any signs of offense nor guilt. Stan lets himself sigh. 

Scooting to sit in front of him, Beverly hums. “Tomorrow morning, I’m gonna make you  _ tea  _ because it’s healthier than your coffee, and I’m gonna make sure you’ve taken your medicine, okay?”

“Thanks, Bev,” says Stan. 

She smiles. “Want to turn on some music and have a Wednesday night dance party?” 

“With costumes?” Richie adds. 

She throws him a look that goes over Stan’s head. 

Richie responds with something equally incredulous. “You didn’t tell him?” 

“I’m on short notice! I expected Bill to do it!” 

“Do what?” Stan interjects. 

“You devil, Beverly Marsh,” Richie says. 

She laughs. “You sinner, Richie Tozier. You agreed to do this too, you know.” 

“Yeah, but it’s a favor.” 

“ _ Do what.”  _

They spare him glances. Richie’s smiling crookedly, as if he knows something Stan does not. He does, and Stan doesn’t like that. It’s never good to have anybody- not to mention Richie, one step ahead of you. 

Beverly scratches at her neck, arm jostling her seashell earrings. “Uhm, I have my first final tomorrow and I need to be sure I sized my outfits right, so Richie, Eddie, and Bill agreed to help me, but Bill’s-” 

“I’ll do it.” He wouldn’t deny Bev anything. The sole exception was the time she tried her hardest to coax him into letting her put drag makeup on him. Besides, Mike had rocked the look with far more flare than Stan ever would. 

“Really?” 

“Of course, what do I have to wear?” 

-

And that is the overture Stan being stood in the center of their living room, clad in mahogany corduroy pants that fit him better than anything he’s worn in his life. The sheer talent of fashion-designer Bev Marsh, everyone. On top, his black turtleneck, ever so slightly too tight, is tucked into the pants. He’s positive that his olive skin is blotchy with an infinitesimal touch of red, but that’s acceptable. He’s just not used to this, is all. 

He frowns although he’s feeling fine now. There isn’t anymore twitching with superstitious, obsessive quality like Stan was working through earlier. Queen’s  _ Don’t Stop Me Now  _ plays in the background while they all wait for Richie to get dressed. 

Eddie emerges from the kitchen, and Stan sees how he’s staring vigorously at the wall, ignoring both of the other humans in the room. Beverly smiles, he tosses her a deep frown, but his eyes remain begrudgingly cheerful. Then Stan looks further. 

Eddie’s not wrapped in his powder blue and green windbreaker like he usually is. In place of the quite frankly overworn garment, Eddie is smothered in thick white fabric that’s akin to a cotton ball. Stan can see the static electricity causing the fuzz on the sweater to stand up, and some of Eddie’s own hair, but that’s likely excused by him throwing the sweater on over his head. The woolen fuzz is tucked into a pair of acid-wash jeans put together with a belt that upon closer inspection, is actually a car seatbelt. 

“Take a picture, Stan,” Eddie grumbles. “It’ll last longer.” 

Stan, admittedly caught off guard, just stares at Eddie, hoping some tactful comeback will come to him. It doesn’t, and their staring contest perseveres even as Richie walks into the room. And they deserve a trophy for not immediately breaking away to ogle what had just crossed into their vision. 

Richie  _ I wear garish scratchy button-ups everyday and can’t coordinate an outfit to save my life  _ Tozier throws his hands out at his sides with a smirk that tells everyone that he knows how good he looks. There is no motley clashing staple of comic book shirt plus Quirky Art Statement button up. No jeans in colors that weren’t meant for jeans. 

There is a mesh shirt with nothing layered underneath, virtually putting the tightness of Stan’s turtleneck to shame. Distantly, the song switches to  _ Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy,  _ and the rest aligns like a teen romance movie as Stan scans the black, ripped, and cuffed jeans kept snug in place by a chain belt. So, in summary, Richie looked fresh of the fucking runway. 

Eddie’s debauched stare wasn’t even laughable anymore, as Stan more or less shared the same incredulity. 

“Three gents walk into a bar. One is wearing what applies to the dress-code at his accounting agency, the other is dressed like a fourth grader’s art project, and the third is a tasty hunk. Who goes home with the girl?”

“None of them. They’re not old enough to go to a bar,” Stan replies, thankfully monotone. ( _ And they all lean towards men,  _ goes unsaid. But he thought that one was pretty good too.)

Bev doubles over laughing. Eddie snorts into a hand balled up over his mouth, then pulls away snickering. 

Richie just about squares up. “Are you seriously telling me I don’t look tasty right now, Stan?”

“Precisely.” 

Eddie stands with the backs of his knees against the cushions of their couch. Richie parallels him by the entrance to the kitchen, and Stan is a few feet from the front door. They form a triangle at Beverly’s command when she starts to scurry around them. 

Commands such as  _ stand straight, Richie  _ or  _ can you please smile, Eddie, a depressed person wouldn’t wear that,  _ (“Checkmate, bitch, I’m wearing it right now,” Eddie said in response. Beverly flicked his forehead) and then  _ look alive, Stan, don’t actually embody the hopeless accountant wearing this outfit.  _

“What were the prompts for each of these outfits anyway, Bev?” Stan asks, electing to ignore her latest quip. 

She speaks over the needle in her mouth, crouching by Eddie with a series of needles woven through the denim at his shins. “Three outfits total. One is business casual, the next is your interpretation of comfortable- whatever that means, I dunno. Eddie, is that fabric comfortable?” 

“Yes.” 

“Cool! And the third was….” she drags out the word ‘was’ for a while, eyes looking up in thought. Richie leans in, interest peaked. “Gothic or rocker, I can’t remember.” 

“You picked me for gothic?” Richie puts a hand over his heart. “Bev, I’m flattered you think of me as the brooding type, I-”

Done with Eddie’s left pant leg, she stalks towards him, needle raised in the air. “Want one in your eye Tozier? Or your armpit? I have a great vantage point for your nipples right now, too.”   
Over the beginning chords of _I Want To Break Free, _Richie covers his chest with both hands creasing the mesh and gasps, pitched high and dramatic. “Oh golly, ma’am! Please don’t put your hands on me!” 

Stan meets Eddie’s eyes, again. No more staring. No more leftover traces of sourness from earlier. No matter how iron-willed Eddie is, he isn’t resolute enough to even try to remain serious for long while he’s wearing what is essentially a cotton ball of a sweater. Eddie looks between Richie and Beverly, then exhales out a jovial laugh. 

He contemplates- was his urge to hug Eddie out of how soft that jacket looked or how soft  _ Eddie  _ looked? Though, he knew full well Eddie wasn’t all soft. There was a hardened exterior there first. Not so softly, Stan thinks to himself, he wants to crack it open, see the defenses leave and see Eddie freely content without a persona to uphold. 

He’s broken out of his rambling when Bev, Eddie, and Richie loudly launch into the chorus of the song. Stan’s just joining in on  _ BUT I HAVE TO BE SURE WHEN I WALK OUT THAT DOOR  _ when Bill clambers down the stairs, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his flannel. This one is a slightly different shade of blue than his last one, with touches of black and red as well. 

“Ooooh, how I w-want to be f-free.” Bill catches on as soon as he hears them singing, and sings under his breath as he stumbles onto the couch. 

“Hey mister, where’s your finished essay?” 

Bill spares Richie a look. “Not done.” 

“No no no, Bill. It’s due at midnight isn’t it?” Eddie scoots up to him on the couch. 

“Maybe s-s-so.” 

“It’s almost ten, you have a bit,” Bev cuts in. “Take a break.” 

“I’m just saying, if he finishes it now he’ll feel better,” Eddie tries. 

“Hand c-cramps, I’m so t-tired of t-t-typing” Bill says weakly. Then gathers his wits enough to take in the room. “W-Why’s Richie d-dressed like a s-s-stripper?” 

Richie glares at Bill, one hand fidgeting with the mesh shirt- holes in star-shapes rather than circles. “You didn’t know it, but that comment cost you your lap-dance privileges.” 

Bill laughs, Eddie and Stan blush uncomfortably. Bev is stabbing a needle into the waist of Stan’s pants. 

“That was gonna be your outfit,” Bev points out once she’s done. 

“Good thing it was mine, I look ravishing,” Richie says, scandalously winking as he pulls down his glasses. Bill pops off the couch, grappling for Bev’s shoulder. “Shit, Bev, I was suh-supposed to-” 

She puts her hand over his. Stan sees him bite his lip. “Don’t sweat it, we have a house of seven. There will be more of this, I promise.”

Bill looks at Stan. Evidently, he’d fallen asleep at his laptop. The keyboard was imprinted onto his reddened right cheek- Stan could pick out the letters  _ o, p, i,  _ and the number 9. His hair was flat on that side, too. Stan sighs. He looked cute. Bedraggled and cute, the kind of boy Stan remembered clutching as they fell asleep on a school night after fooling around, and the kind of boy Stan wanted to kiss goodnight and watch fall asleep again like nothing had ever changed. 

But all Stan says is, ‘choose one song and then go write the rest of your essay.” 

Bill narrows his eyes, slow smile forming across his face. “Whose phone are we using?” 

Eddie wordlessly passes his phone. Bill types and types and types. 

-

Needless to say, Mike was pleasantly surprised when he walked straight into a living room that had descended into a shitty illusion of a club.  _ Wouldn’t It Be Nice  _ by the Beach Boys is blaring. Richie and Bev are performing a poorly-executed tango of flimsy arms and laughter breaks. Eddie stares at the ceiling, head snuggled into one of their pillows, and sings. Bill picks at the particles on Stan’s turtleneck while they sit on the couch and mouth along, neither holding enough conviction to get up and dance. 

Mike doesn’t miss a beat, though. He drops his backpack on the table, unties and toes off his boots by the door, and jumps right in. With a wistful smile, Eddie lets himself be lifted from the throes of the couch. Mike grabs his hands and initiates a cheesy foxtrot. 

Stan picks up some of their conversation. The music really wasn’t that loud- it was their voices badly singing along that were. 

“How are you, Mikey?” 

Mike smiles affectionately. “Good, and you?” As Eddie replies, he lets go of one of his hands to rub the fuzz of his sweater. Eddie’s burns up, face reddening noticeably under Mike’s ministrations. It’s okay, Stan’s been there too. Mike had a steady, grounding, relaxed attractiveness about him. Stan found it especially difficult to resist, and swallows, faintly jealous.

Eventually, the song ends and Mike pesters Bill back to writing his paper. Bev gives them the okay to take off the clothes with a lingering  _ be careful.  _

Stan climbs the stairs to his room, and smiles at his Zoloft, though he suspects it was more so his friends that made him feel this much better, not the meds. With care like Beverly asked, he unbuttons the pants with as much precision as he can muster, and then steps out of them. Once they’re folded on his bed, he peels the turtleneck’s thin fabric from his skin before gingerly slipping his arms through and pulling it over his head. 

Before he was diagnosed with OCD, he had a phase in seventh grade he remembers rather strongly. It was back when he was really only close with Richie, Bill, and Eddie. Back before they'd all met and become  _ seven.  _ The collars on his shirts would irritate him to the point where he’d scratched at his neck so much it was perpetually red. The ever-present pressure of the hint of fabric was barely there, but suffocating all the same. It was especially worse when he was sick, too. He recalls vividly when he’d been getting over the flu, and was sent to school after a week of absence. Bill had gotten him the homework day after day, so he returned well-prepared. That morning he’d hacked out a lung at the bike rack, winter air harsh on his recovering system. Eddie had made it there first. Stan beckoned him over but Eddie was stubbornly wary.  _ I’m not contagious,  _ Stan had said, to which Eddie had replied  _ according to Google, feelings of fatigue and fits of coughing can keep going for up to two weeks, so no, you’re still contagious to me.  _ Richie had pedaled around the corner, earbuds jammed so deep in his ears the music could probably be heard through his nose, and then flipped them off with a grin. By the time Richie made his way over, Eddie had taken a grand total of one step closer. 

The day had progressed, and Stan remembered being happy to have come to school. He missed his friends, he missed his routine. But he was on edge- unable to stop yanking at the seams of his jacket because the hoodie kept blanketing his neck. He felt like he was going to throw up, he clawed at the fabric whenever he honed in on it for too long.

Richie had noticed first, then Bill, and Eddie had actually claimed,  _ it’s his scratchy throat, right Stan?  _ Stan wished it was. 

A week later it had continued. He wasn’t sick anymore, showed no signs of it, and still the whole shirt collar-issue persevered. Stan convinced his parents something was wrong. He’d gotten medicine, the issue had resolved enough until Stan only felt that way again if he thought hard enough on it, which oftentimes, he didn’t. He used his mind power for better things. 

Whatever fabric Beverly had used though, might as well have fairy dust. It didn’t come to mind once. 

-

He comes back down, having retrieved last night’s sweats from the dryer and settled into an old baseball tee shirt from high school. It was Bill’s. He’d left it at Stan’s house junior year and never bothered to take it back. Logically, as to not waste perfectly good clothing, Stan had safekept it. 

In the kitchen, Richie was reheating the rest of the pizza for Mike whilst humming one of their earlier song choices under his breath. It sounded like something musical theatre-y but something Stan didn’t bother to recall. 

“Already heading to bed, Staniel?” 

He was, but the hint of teasing in Richie’s voice compels him throw his elbows on the counter and lay his chin on his arms instead. Stan fostered no objections- Richie had changed into his own pajamas- if that’s what you’d mercifully call them, and Stan stuck around to smile to himself about how ridiculous the ensemble was. Also, the stress from his attack earlier had subsided for the most part, but he’d like for Richie’s nonsense to keep it at bay for a little longer. 

The amusing thing was that Richie had never been known to actually purchase nightwear. He simply recycled his overworn clothes so that his sleep couture was a strange mixture off too-ugly-too big-too small-too corny-too tight. For one of their Christmas- Hanukkah mashups, Stan had bought him a set of blue flannel pants and a button up sleepshirt, only for Richie to give him a dopey grin and show up wearing it to school after their break ended. 

Tonight’s enlightened combo included a grainy tee shirt with different color pineapples in a pop art, Andy-Warhol Esque style. He remembers Bev cajoling him into buying it so she could feel solidarity in buying her own bold purchase- a dress she still wore today, made out of an array of different fabric patches. Richie’s pajama bottoms were a crime against humanity, and furthermore, Stan would imply, a crime against God. He was pretty sure he’d told Richie that before. They were sweatpants- too small so that they hugged his legs, in the freaky neon green/yellow color some people were obsessed with. 

And with all that too boot, somehow Richie still managed to look like something Stan could love. 

Richie quirked a brow, removing a paper plate with three pizza slices across it from the microwave. “Usually when I ask a question, I expect an answer, but all do respect if my smokin’ hot bod is what’s tickling your fancy tonight.” 

“Beep-beep, Richie.” 

“Yeah, okay. Trash the Trashmouth, I get it, I do. Seriously though Stanny, when’s the last time somebody tickled your  _ anything?”  _

Stan goes stiff. “Richie,” he says in warning. 

Richie whirls around, plate of pizza in hand. It nearly falls. He doesn’t pay it any mind. The way he’s looking at Stan is how a scientist examines their future vivisection. “You remember when you kissed me after your bar mitzvah?” 

Stan purses his lips. Whatever he expected, it hadn't been that. 

“I was hotheaded and impulsive after what I said.” Really, Stan’s swimming and dizzy. He’d truthfully blocked it out so hard that he’d come close to forgetting, he thought now. How long had Richie remembered? 

“ _ I’m a loser, and no matter what, I always fucking will be,”  _ Richie repeats, wholehearted delivery nearly making Stan puff out a laugh. “You weren’t a loser when you jammed your face on my face.” 

“If that’s what you call kissing, I think we’re done here.” 

“Why did we never speak about it again?” 

Stan wants to jam his face into the counter right about now. His skin feels like molten lava. “The kiss, Richie? I don’t know. We had better things to do.” 

“I don’t think physics is better than kissing, you’ve got me all wrong on that front,” Richie laughs. There’s something behind it- the lack of mirth, maybe, that he’s not used to hearing from Richie. 

“Why are we talking about this?” He asks. 

Richie puts down the plate, leaving it out for Mike who’d gone for a shower. “Has Eddie told you anything about last night?” 

Stan chokes. “Eugh, no.” 

“Well, I’m your delivery pigeon, then. Our precious little Eddie (God, Richie could thank his lucky stars it was just the two of them in the kitchen, those words would render Eddie downright murderous) confessed to liking more than one of us. He told me to not tell anyone, but I walked in on Bill showering the other day, so privacy is dead,” Richie says. Stan goes as still as a statue, static and signals running through his head at lightning speed.

Richie relishes in Stan’s reaction, apparently, because he’s fighting a smile. “What do you call a sevensome?” 

“Septet,” Stan says, simply picking his arms up and walking backwards. 

Richie follows, face falling. “Wait, time-out. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“So it’s all a joke?” Stan is stuck between relief and what baffles him more, disappointment. 

“Oh no, it’s true. I didn’t know how to stomach that one either, but I mean, we’re already practically married so…” 

Stan scoffs. “We live together on the grounds that one single house is cheaper than seven apartments.”

“That’s true, but do any other groups of friends share clothes all the time? Do they make each other breakfast and kiss each other on the cheek most days?” 

“Yes?” 

“No, Stan. I have a buck wild theory. What if-  _ what if  _ the seven of us became like, this crazy awesome power couple- throuple, seven-touple? We all love each other. Me and Eddie confirmed that much. And there’s no way you can pretend the way Ben and Bev look at each other isn't true fucking love. Also, Bill told me about you two last year. Kinda scandalous-” he wiggles his eyebrows. “- But listen to me here, You’re stable, you look like a marble statue-” 

“I’m sorry,” Stan interrupts. “I look like a what?” 

“You know- in like, the Renaissance. Italy? Michelangelo- the ninja turtle guys carved all those statues and they looked phenomenal. That’s how you look.” 

Stan definitely does not smile behind the smooth sleeves of Bill’s jersey. “Okay. Clarified. Go on.” 

“You’re good with money and um, like I said a second ago. Statue-lookin.’ I’m-” he gestures to himself in a way that’s either cute or weird, Stan doesn’t know how to even begin to interpret the way his head spins. “Funny, and I fuck like a beas-” 

“Next!” 

Richie sticks out his tongue, face a pinch red under the kitchen light. “Bill’s a given- we’ve all been pining for him since we were what, twelve? Big Bill on his oversized silver bike? That’s love. Then Eddie. Obvious. He’s spunky, angry, and fun-sized. Also,  _ he  _ fucks l-” 

“Richie.”

“Moving on then. Mikey’s the best cook in the whole wide world and he gives hugs like absolutely nobody’s business. That man exudes benevolence- That’s why he’s Benvolio. We agreed on that. And I’m actually convinced Beverly is the only woman on this planet, the rest are planted by the government or something- besides the obvious though, Eddie’s mom and perhaps Lady Gaga. Bev is amazing. Who else would paint our nails or tell us we’re smelly like she does? Another point, she's drop dead gorgeous."

Stan, without thought, nods along. Richie rocks on his heels, and Stan catches now how visibly nervous he looked. The fidgeting yeah, but he was squinting behind his glasses, eyes shifting from Stan and the wonky light behind him in rapid succession. 

Richie cracks his knuckles. “Do I even have to explain Ben? He’s a fucking model and he’s humble and kind and smart as-” 

“I’m going to bed,” Stan says suddenly. This is too close to whatever fantasy he’d entertain himself with when he needed a reason to keep working hard. Bill’s hands being so easy to hold, Richie’s eyes being so open and welcoming, Mike’s arms wrapping around his shoulders, Beverly’s soft smiles when she was tired, Eddie’s hair falling into his face midway through one of his rants, Ben’s cheekbones in the fluorescent sunset as they studied together last week-  _ jesus.  _ He couldn’t keep thinking like this. It wasn’t normal. Sure, he could fathom falling in love with one person- even a man, he’d long since gotten a grip on the fact that he was about as heterosexual as a figure eight- but there was no way he could fathom falling in love with six people. Logic- life, it didn’t work that way, obviously because it was not meant to work. Eddie was probably caught up in the moment, or Richie was pulling a fast one. Stan wouldn’t hear it. It wasn’t normal. It wouldn’t happen. 

He opens his door. Richie eloquently stutters behind him. His room is neat as always and Stan scowls at nothing, wishing his thoughts would obey his will and reflect the tidiness. 

“You’re not in love with six people, that’s stupid,” he mutters as he collapses onto the bed without a smidgen of grace and yanks the covers up to his nose. 

He forgot to brush his teeth. No- he’s not gonna get up all over again and risk seeing Richie just because-

Stan throws the covers off his body and defiantly tiptoes to the upstairs bathroom. To his luck, there’s no one occupying it. He avoids his face in the mirror as he counts to sixty twice. Then he promptly power-walks back and like that, he’s in bed again not feeling any more at rest than he was before.

He closes his eyes. Maybe the lack of vision will communicate to his head that he’s ready to start his free trial of death any time now. 

_ Eddie said-  _

He rolls over. 

_ Richie told you-  _

He rubs at his eyes with a lethargic, sluggish arm. His body had fallen asleep, why couldn’t his mind follow? 

_ What if-  _

“Stan? Oh, shit, sorry, you’re asleep-” 

“Come in,” he squawks around the pillow in his face, thankful for a reason to ditch sleep when it wouldn’t come. 

“But you’re asleep,” what he recognizes and identifies as Ben’s voice replies from the door. A stream of flaxen yellow light creeps though as he steps in anyway. 

Stan rolls onto his back, eyes sticking closed. Unbeknownst to him, Ben smiles at the rare peek of a sleep-ridden Stan. He was not often this lax and Ben took pleasure in being the one to witness his restfulness. 

“What did you make with the 3D printer?” 

Ben shifts, one hand moving from behind his back. “Three guesses.” 

Stan opens one eye. “No.” 

“Three guesses,” Ben says again, smile prominent in his voice.

Stan closes it again. “The world’s smallest violin.” 

He hears Ben laugh and it brings a smile to his face. “No.” 

“Salt and pepper shakers.”

“Nope.” Ben pops the ‘p. 

“Jewelry for Beverly?”   
Stan opens his eyes enough to see Ben’s pale skin turn crimson. Albeit a tad sadistic, Stan savored the ability he had to inflict to render people speechless. With a little reading of the room and the person, it came easy. More than once he’d matched Richie’s ammo with his own wisecrack. 

“Why would you think that?” ‘

Stan smiles. “You love her. You’ve loved her since high school.” 

“You don’t have to say it,” Ben says. 

“Why?” 

“Because she doesn’t love me.” 

A great bout of ruthless  _ something  _ takes over Stan to seize Ben’s arm and coax him onto the bed. When Ben doesn't fight against it, Stan puts his hands on his shoulders. Whether to steady himself or to steady Ben, he wasn't sure. Stan hadn’t turned on his bedroom light, but the faint stream of hallway light served them fine. He can see Ben’s perplexity crystal clear. 

“Ben Hanscom. You’re going to stop making me guess things because you know full well I don’t have a clue what you’re hiding behind your back. You’re going to sit down right here and tell me what bullshit you’re on that possessed you to even dare say Beverly doesn’t love you.” 

He shrugs, Stan rubs his thumbs into Ben’s shoulders. “I’m not what she wants,” is all he says. 

“What the everloving fuck does that mean? She’s bisexual Ben, there isn’t anything she  _ doesn’t  _ want. And trust me, you’ve been what she’s wanted since she laid eyes on you.” 

“But I was-” 

“Fat!” Stan throws his arms out and stands up, consumed by a fire that he’d love to title protectiveness over his friends, but deep down he knew it was more. “You were fat Ben, so what? That doesn’t change how clever you are, or the fact you’re attending one of the best colleges in the world. It doesn’t make you any less beautiful or any less worthy of love. Okay?” Ben gulps, looking slightly teary. “Beverly sees that, and we all see it too. We loved you from the moment we met. The way you look doesn’t matter to us- it never will." He sits back down, bashfully avoiding Ben's now searching eyes for a reason he can't put his finger on. Stan leans against the pillows and throws his legs on Ben's lap. "I know it's hard some days, but understand that your physical appearance has never and will never play a role in who loves you." 

Ben sniffs, one hand reaching to massage Stan’s bare foot. “Thank you.” 

With a rush of affection, Stan takes that hand and squeezes it. “Anytime. So what’s the jewelry?” 

“Oh, actually,” Ben says, other hand coming in to view. There’s a cerulean-colored shape peeking from his fingers. “I’m making something for all of you guys, an early Christmas present. And, you know, Eddie’s birthday is coming up soon so I can save what I make for him until November.”

As he reveals the gift, Stan sees the last tear on his chin dry. Ben says “since you came to mind, I wanted to make something you’d like first. So, here’s this.” And calloused, strong hands open Stanley’s own. Ben’s hands were remarkably large, and Stan shoved away the question of what holding his hand would feel like. A smooth, cool cerulean bird is sitting there within a second instead. With little black eyes and a smile printed onto its break. Stan can feel the meticulously carved grooves of its feathers. 

He thinks it’s a blue jay. He thinks Ben’s a blue jay. 

When his eyes move from the bird, Ben is looking at him with of course, puppy eyes. Stan fights the want to put a hand on his face and puts it on his arm, which is clad in cozy fabric of Ben’s old NSYNC sweater. He feels the bicep tense and rubs until it relaxes again. 

“I’m going to put it on my desk so that I have something more to work for.” 

Ben smiles. “So you like it?” 

“Of course I like it.” 

They stare at each other, beige walls, and the rest of the room’s darkness. The silence is comfortable. 

Ben shifts a little. “Thank you, for that talk.” 

“Thank you for the bird, blue jay.” 

With a smile he’s never seen cross Ben’s face before, Ben leaves. Stan positions the bird on his nightstand and stares at it, -commits the faint imprint of feet on the bottom, the hatches splayed across the wings, the lopsided left eye that makes the bird real in the minimal light to memory until he falls asleep. 

-

His Thursdays are usually his easiest day, but not when the single class he’s attending- financial theory- has brewed up what’s sure to be a bitch of a test for him. The best part is, he’s just remembered it upon entering the waking world. 

At least he slept well. 

The little blue jay is on his nightstand where he left it, and as of yesterday wasn’t an effective reminder in taking his medicine, the single wing angled in the direction of the pill bottle is. Stan swallows his dose before tugging himself from the covers that had been starting to grow sweaty and uncomfortable anyway. 

True to her word, Beverly beat him to the kitchen. As he lazily and sleep-heavily walks down the stairs with his eyes only half-open, he can hear her voice among others. 

“Mikey!” 

“I got you, Bev,” Mike says. “Richie, fuck off.” 

“ _ Woooo!  _ Mikey Hanlon is the Han-champion. He said a no-no word!” 

“You’re trying to distract him from the task at hand, Rich,” Eddie snaps. “Don’t steal another fucking pancake. You already had like five, I swear to God.” 

“So swear,” Ben says quietly and they all laugh. 

Bill’s there too, Stan gathers. Nobody else would trip over the rug and fall into his view at the top of the stairs. 

“S-shit,” he gasps, not noticing Stan there yet. “I stubbed my toe.” 

The tip of Richie’s wiggling pointer finger is visible around the wall between the kitchen and living room. “He swore!” 

Bill hunches over and spares a glare at the foot of the bookcase before sensing he was being watched. His eyes dart to Stan and become impossibly fond. 

Stan was sure it was shared by everyone- the unconditional, reverent love and admiration for Bill Denbrough. He’d banded them all together and shaped himself into their fearless leader though school. Bullies in Derry had been relentless, and Bill never ceased to stand up for any of them, even though he’d more often than not come away with a split lip or a black eye. Nowadays, they didn’t have much to hide from now that they’d grown. Bill’s stutter only really fractured his speech when he was tired or frustrated. Richie had grown into his glasses and worked with his class-clown role by appearing at local open-mics and on radio shows. After moving out of his mother’s reach, Eddie’s uptightness had fallen away to unveil what was an unhinged critic at best and a surrogate athsmatic at worst. It was Mike’s idea to have a spare aspirator in the house just in case. Even now, it was kept in a plastic bag in the back of their medicine cabinet. Stan’s own Jewish heritage wasn’t a big deal in New York, where there were plenty other matters more important than whose God would be believed in. Ben’s weight had turned into tight abs and his bullies had been replaced by double-takes in the hall and wondering eyes and thoughts by all who lingered on him. Of course, Ben was oblivious. He told Bill once with laughable clarity that the reason he was collecting so many stares was the shirt he was wearing. And he was half-right, the shirt was Eddie’s and it didn’t miss framing an inch of skin of Ben’s chest. Beverly was still pursued by creeps on the street, but she kept pepper spray tucked into her handbags at all times. Another clever defense was one of the six guys often walking beside her. More than once, Eddie had gone off- yelling and gesturing with his hands, at guys who had come to close. Mike and Ben’s unnerving politeness worked just as well. Stan prided himself on his mechanism- it was all in the eyes. Protective looks were his forte. Mike was free of the predominantly white town of Derry, and loving it. Although if any of his classmates dared to speak an unkind word, it was expected one of the other six would drive the three hours to Syracuse in an instant. So they were faring fine presently. Still, their feelings for Bill had not wavered. Stan suspected they never would. This, after all, was Bill Denbrough, the man who protected and loved them all as much as they loved him. 

Stan, caught under Bill like a moth to a light, approaches him. In a few steps, he’s walking with Bill into the kitchen to smile at the scene before him. 

Mike, with a frying pan heavy with pancakes in one hand, was fanning himself with the other while watching Bev wrestle Richie away from him. Eddie, unamused, had his chin in his hand balanced on the back of his chair. Ben hides a smile by biting into his thumb. He sees Bill and Stan first, and raises his coffee- no, tea, in acknowledgement. Stan takes a seat between Ben and Bill. 

“Sir, one crumb of pancake,” Richie is saying as Beverly latches onto his arm to pull him back. 

Mike flips the pancakes. “I feel threatened.” 

“Richie, sit the fuck down. Save some for Stan-”

Richie spins around and his smile falls flat when he sees Stan. Stan had nearly pushed last night’s development from his mind, and it all came back now. “Stan, Stan, Stan The Man,” he grumbles. “You took my seat.”

“There’s eight seats, Richie. You’ll find another,” Stan says stiffly. 

As Richie sits next to Bill, Beverly pats Mike’s shoulder and faces Stan. “Take your medicine?” 

“I did.”

She claps her hands. “What tea do you want?” 

“Actually I gave him a fair bit of te-” Richie is cut off by Eddie stepping on his foot under the table. An apologetic, fleeting glance supplies all Stan needs to know. Eddie knows Richie told Stan. 

Bill looks between the three, confused. Ben meets his eye and offers a shrug. 

“I’ll take mint,” Stan tells Beverly. “Thanks.” 

Bill clears his throat. “Anybody h-h-have any puh-plans today?” 

“It’s Thursday, I’m going with Mike today,” Eddie says pointedly with a quick look at Richie. 

Richie huffs. “I’m out of here until around nine tonight. I’m getting paid to tell jokes you all take for granted.” 

“Richie, we love your humor,” Mike says in a voice that’s playfully thick with falsehood. 

They all laugh, the tips of the rising tension cut back into their usual banter. 

“Bullshit,” Bill calls. 

Mike puts a plate with pancakes in front of Stan. Eddie passes the syrup. 

They taste like Heaven, as he expected, and Stan eats ferociously enough as to impose agreeable laugher from the rest of the table. 

“I’ve only got two classes today, and maybe like, one shift at the coffee shop so I’ll be home by one,” Bev says. 

“Mhm. I’ll be there around the same time if I don’t stop by the gym.” Ben stands up, shoulders his backpack. He ruffles Bill’s hair on his way out, which, to their amusement, results in Bill fumbling and almost burning himself with his coffee. 

Richie watches the dopey smile on Bill’s face. He looks at Stan, challenge radiating from him. 

Stan just shovels another bite of pancake onto his fork. 

“Eddie and I will be home maybe around six if the traffic’s good,” Mike says. He peeks around the corner at the calendar on the wall. “Stan, you’re on dinner tonight. What were you thinking?” 

Shit. He  _ hadn’t  _ been thinking. 

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

-

Spaghetti and meatballs it is. Stan’s speed walking through the hall from his class, stuck between presuming he aced the test or just barely passed it. Either way, he’s beginning to fall into the weary mindset that as long as he passes the class, he’ll be set.

His phone dings. 

_ RICHIE: Don’t b mad Stanny  _

Stan turns off his phone. Then turns it on again and types out a response that he doesn’t send because he doesn’t know how to finish it. 

_ STANLEY: I’m not mad at you. I’m  _

He scowls. Yes, he wants this. But it’s only him, Eddie, and Richie on that boat. And he can’t even think of the other six without self-loathing creeping up on him. And of course it won’t ever happen. This’ll pass.

-

He walks in the door, apparently the first home that day. A grocery bag hangs from his arm. He puts it on the counter and decides to start dinner after some homework. He’s got a fair bit to get done and he might as well get started on it now. 

As he’s walking through the kitchen to the stairs, bright letters catch his attention. He sees the sink first, looking as if it had been scrubbed until it bled pure white. There wasn’t a single dish. Stan sighs, it was clean. If there had been a knot in his chest, it would have unfurled. 

The letters on the fridge spell,  _ DISHES DONE. LOVE, EDDIE.  _

He stares at the word LOVE- purple L, red O, blue V, green E- for a stretch of time. 

Stanley leaves the kitchen once the fridge poetry reads  _ LOVE.  _

-

Ben and Bev enter together. Stan can hear their laughter mingle together over the sounds of his fingers on the computer keys. He’s editing the final draft of a paper and checking off that he’s covered all the criteria he needed to submit it. His fingers freeze on the keys when he hears a distinct sound from the room across from his own.

Looking back, he’d call this the second domino effect of their lives. The first being when they all got into colleges located near each other, and this one being the grand falling-into-bed scheme. 

Starting with Richie and Eddie, then Ben and Beverly, and then-

-

_ MIKE: My professor didn’t show up?? Me and Eddie are coming home early.  _

_ STANLEY: Want me to start dinner?  _

_ MIKE: No need. Eds and I are at Panera Bread grabbing lunch. Want me to bring home anything?  _

_ STANLEY: Some bread, any kind you want, to have with dinner would be nice. _

_ MIKE: Eddie chose sourdough :)  _

-

He works for another hour, then scrolls though his phone long enough to assure Ben and Beverly won’t be disturbed by knowing they weren’t alone in the house. 

Stan Uris doesn’t laugh that much. But he ‘got off on a good one,’ as Richie would put it, when he walked downstairs and scared Beverly, who was flicking through the TV channels, into screaming at the top of her lungs. She was under a seafoam knit blanket with a pink cardigan over her white  _ FASHION INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY  _ tank top. Her hair was a dollop of red fire on her head kept in check with the green scrunchie from last night. But she was still screaming, holding a hand to her chest, when Stan walked down the stairs.

A lovely coincidence occurs when Eddie and Mike spill through the door and Ben pops out behind Stan, running down the stairs. 

They all look around, first to Bev, then Stan, then Ben. 

“Is that Panera Bread?” Beverly had calmed down, and was gesturing to the bag in Eddie’s hand. 

“No, it’s roadkill,” Eddie says bluntly and sets it on the coffee table before flopping onto the couch, head in Beverly’s lap. 

Mike rolls his eyes and smiles at Stan as he takes a seat in the loveseat. Stan leans against the back of it, not flinching when Beverly looks at him. 

“You scared the living shit out of me!” 

Stan snorts. “As I should.” 

Ben finally descends the staircase, settling on Bev’s other side. Under the orange and red striped shirt he has on, Stan can see hints of purple and red flecking his neck. He raises an eyebrow at Beverly. She shrugs. 

Eddie shifts, laugher biting at his words. “So far it’s taken a record three weeks for all of us to snap and fuck each other under close quarters.”

“Not all,” Mike pipes up. “I’m responsible.” 

Ben looks down at Eddie, unimpressed. “First of all, you snapped first. Second, we didn’t even-” 

“You’re ruining the mystery!” Beverly squeals.

“Why does there have to be any mystery? The only one who has mystery is  _ Bill!  _ He’s a horror-mystery writer, Bev! We aren’t!” 

Beverly collapses into Ben’s chest, laughing so hard that it’s silent. Eddie joins, and Stan watches Mike watch them. 

“Explain Ben’s neck if you didn’t do anything,” Mike says after the laughter fizzles out. 

Ben looks positively scandalized when his hands fly up to rub at his neck and jawline. “We kissed,” he says, sounding like he was a guilty middle-schooler again. 

“Leave them alone and help me make dinner instead, Eddie,” Stan says. He actually didn’t want Eddie to so much as lay a finger on the food, but was intending on asking him about what Richie said.

Ben tosses Stan a grateful look as Eddie follows Stan into the kitchen. As Stan leaves, he hears the beginning of the F.R.I.E.N.D.S theme song while Bev, Ben, and Mike relax into their seats. 

See, Eddie was an okay cook. But since he gained a taste of freedom, i.e. a household lacking his overbearing mother, he was absolutely wreckless in the kitchen. He was so full of energy that it had become a common occurance to remind Eddie of what he’d usually have to remind them, that  _ hot surfaces can burn you at temperatures up at 140 degrees fahrenheit in only five seconds.  _ And for Stan, the risk always outweighed the reward. 

He situates Eddie at the counter just where he’d been with Richie last night, and conducts his interrogation with the steaming pot on the oven and the cracking of spaghetti on the edges. Once it all falls into the bowl and liquefies, Stan opens his mouth. 

“What did Richie tell you?”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “He told me that he told you what I said.” 

“Can you tell me what you said?” Stan scoops a glob of butter and mixes it into the noodles using a spatula. 

“I said you’re all hot and desirable. Enough?” 

Stan shrugs, stirring languidly. “Even Bev?” 

“Even Bev. I think-” Eddie swallows. “-I think it’s all of us.” 

“Come again.” Stan’s blood had gone too hot and too cold, but he keeps his composure and stirrs, watching the butter fade into the hot water. 

Eddie places the salt on the counter next to him, and talks over the sound of him opening a cabinet to pull out the strainer. “I think we all have the same feelings but we’re too scared to talk about it. Sexuality doesn’t matter. I’m gay, Ben’s straight, you and Mike lean towards guys, and I still think it could all work.” 

“I’m sorry,” Stan begins, already regretting his words. Breaching this subject was… too much. “I didn’t realize you and Richie suffered from a complex-” 

“-I’m gonna stop you right there,” Eddie says. “You can’t say that and pretend you don’t feel the same way.” 

For the second time that week, Eddie has rendered Stan speechless. 

A strainer is pushed into his hand, where Stan stains out of water into the sink. Eddie nudges his way next to Stan in order to make the sauce. “I knew I was in love with Bill from the start, I think we all did. Then Richie was next, because I can’t resist nerds who don’t know how to shut their damn mouths. In highschool, I think it came to me. I was scared because even though I knew for sure I was head over heels for Richie and Bill, I had some sort of-” he waves his hand after opening a jar. “-schoolboy crush on Mike. And last year or so you told one of your  _ kookie kookie lend me your bones  _ jokes and I realized that I loved you, too. I held myself back with doting on Ben, for obvious reasons. And I haven’t come to terms with what I have for Bev, but I know it’s there.” Stan looks at his face. Really, really soul-searches past the contrite doe eyes and jutting pastel cheekbones. There he finds truth, and the boldness to encourage it. 

Stan’s heart is in his throat. He salts the spaghetti and unwraps the container of meatballs. 

“The reason I’m saying this, Stanley Urine, is that maybe if we all grow a pair and bother to talk about it, we can figure it out together.” 

Stan whips around, smacks Eddie lightly with his spatula at the nickname, and then pulls him into a hug. Even he didn’t anticipate the last action, but he supposes it was the right thing to do. Eddie was right, after all. 

“I gave you the heart-patterned showercap at our old middle-school clubhouse because I thought you were cute.”

Eddie laughed. He spares a thought for a moment. “You gave us all heart-patterned showercaps in different colors.” 

“Exactly,” Stan says, voice shaking just a little, before he faces the counter again and drizzles the sauce onto the noodles. 

He sees faintly, how Eddie sways on his feet and smiles. He remembers it so clearly later on because he told himself he’d never forget it. 

A great burst of laughter from Beverly, Ben, and Mike erupts from the living room. Stan smiles too, allotting himself the selfish thought that that laughter sounded like love songs and wedding bells. And maybe somehow they were. Maybe this was his future. 

Eddie gives him one last meaningful look before joining them in the living room. 

What a lovely, wicked thing called love, Stan thinks dutifully as he divides the food into seven different bowls. 

-

Ten minutes later, dinner is done but they have no Bill and no Richie. He surrenders himself to the guilt-inducing activity of doing nothing at all. With a checklist of assignments rolling itself out in his head, he stares more at the people in the room then the television. 

Apparently, he’d zoned out because when he breaks himself out of fixing his eyes on the chip in the wall above Mike’s head, Mike is looking at him. He looks like a cherub in the way that they’re unblemished and purely celestial, seraphic beings. 

So when Mike maintains their eye contact, nods briefly to the staircase, and stands up, Stan follows with ardor. 

-

Mike’s room is much like the farm he was raised on, an Eden on Earth. The walls are a neutral tan color that reflects the warm lamplight. There’s a red light bent over a table decorated with a variety of plantlife, and a bunch more greenery by the single window perpendicular to the bed. Mike’s sheets are orange and brown, and the bed is lifted higher off the ground than any of theirs. It’s otherworldly and storybook how at peace Stan feels after a single step into the area.  “You seemed overwhelmed,” Mike says. 

Stan sits beside him on the bed, not resisting how Mike gently wheedles him into lying down. “Thank you, I was.” He normally wouldn’t disclose that, but Mike was different. Mike felt like all the comfort you’d ever ask for and all the fresh air you’ll ever need. 

“Was it school?” 

“For once, no,” Stan chuckles. Mike’s hand cards through his hair and he stiffens. He spent time on his hair- adjusting it so the curls hung just right and so it stayed healthy, and hands running through his hair definitely didn’t do it any good. But on second thought, it felt nice. So he closes his eyes and hones in on the feel of Mike playing with the hair near his neck. 

“What would you be?” 

His eyes snap open. He’d forgotten they were even closed. “What?” 

“The other night at dinner, you asked what we’d do if it wasn’t what we already were studying. You never answered.” 

Stan remembers. “Neither did you.” 

“I’d be a librarian,” Mike says. 

“Not a chef?” 

Mike cups his jaw. “You’re trying to change the topic.” 

Stan rolls from his side onto his back, meeting Mike’s sublime brown eyes. In this light, they’re drips of honey. Stan could peer into them forever and still find flecks and hues that amazed him. And  _ god,  _ Mike had eyelashes that would make anybody jealous. They curled up to his creases. 

“Ornithologist.”

“Ornitha-what?” Mike asks. The word comes out incorrectly, but the way he spoke could have fooled anyone into thinking he was an expert. 

Stan gingerly reaches for the hand that had glided from his hair to resting on the back of his neck. He connects their hands and stares at their fingers, eyes blurring after their skin became a yin and yang of ivory and ebony. “It’s the study of birds.” 

“Your birdbooks,” Mike says. “Why birds?” 

“They can fly. We can’t. There’s so many different types and they’re all fascinating. They’re always here- when we were kids and I had a bad day I’d see crows in the sky and now I see really fat pigeons trying to get food off the streets. No matter the kind, birds are a constant. Also, they’re really beautiful.” 

Mike is smiling. His full lips curve upwards and Stan’s heart skips a beat. “You’re either a crane or a Hyacinth Macaw,” he says. “I can’t decide.” 

“Why?” 

Stan scoots up onto his elbows, head resting on the pillow and his and Mike’s locked hands on his chest. “Cranes are symbols of justice, and whenever you see them, whenever  _ I  _ see them, it’s striking. They’re like the guardians of whatever habitat you find them in. They’re graceful and- wait, why are you asking?,” Stan says, suddenly self-conscious. Usually if he’d talked this much on a bird watching expedition, his old boy scout friends would have fallen asleep, laughed, or thrown their half-eaten apples in his direction. 

The thumb from Mike’s other hand strokes his cheek and Stan holds his breath, going slightly faint. Was Mike always this tactile? He should be. 

“Hyacinth Macaw,” Mike prods gently. 

“They’re the largest species of parrot. Their feathers are a really cool shade of cobalt blue and they have a yellow ring around their eyes and beak. (Stan tells this with the same precision as he told his parents when they took him to an aviary for the first time and he saw one. For a short time, they were his favorite.) Actually, despite their size, they’re known to be gentle giants.” 

Mike says nothing, and Stan shifts under the softly intense nature of his eyes. Doubt simmers in Stan’s stomach. He has a thought that for once instead of wanting to blow away, he wants to capture. A pregnant pause occurs. And here, in the room where only beautiful things like household succulents and ferns are known to be born, tries for something new. With his remaining hand, he finds Mike’s face and urges it down. 

“We’re number three,” Mike says giddily before they kiss. The third pair to do this thus far. 

It’s so much. Mike’s lips are unfairly, dreamily soft. Stan transcends to another plane when Mike cradles his face on either side. His now free hand comes to rest on the back of Mike’s neck. He traces circles there, and his fingers stutter when Mike parts their lips. 

“Is this okay?” 

So Stan says what he’s been wanting to say for so long he’s lost count of the clock. “Yes.”

They kiss until Stan can’t feel his lips and until Mike’s voice takes up a breathless quality. By the time they both receive a text from Bill saying  _ ik rich is coming home late but i promise i won’t eat all the leftovers this time. Eddie said u made dinner can we please eat now,  _ Stan had straddled Mike’s thighs and Mike had one hand on Stan’s hip and another ghosting along his neck. Needless to say, the buzz in their pockets from their phones was relatively unbidden. 

“May I have this dance?” 

Mike was referring to his ringtone for Bill, which was  _ Holding On For A Hero.  _ Stan laughs freely and grabs his hands, initiating a goofy, heedless, offbeat shimmy that he’s glad nobody else is around to see. 

They seperate. Stan asks him before they’re out the door, what he thinks of spaghetti. 

“I think it’ll be lovely knowing you made it,” Mike says. 

It isn’t half bad. What is, though, is how Stan thought he could get away with puffy red lips and salvage his dignity and his sanity. Here he is, serving them all bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, while Mike is perpetually grinning as radiantly as the sun shines, Bill is eyeing Stan’s face in a way he hasn’t seen him stare since high school, Eddie and Bev are muffling laughter and making faces at each other across the table, and Ben is smiling at the napkin on his lap, shoulders shaking. 

He rations the last bit away in the fridge for Richie, where the plastic magnets now spell  _ RIP BILL  _ right below  _ GO HANLON AND URIS.  _

Stan sees this, and cocks his hip with his hand on it, facing the table. He glares solidly until they notice. Ever so guilty, Bev and Eddie are fixing him with blank faces that do jackshit to hide how much they’re biting their cheeks to stop from laughing. 

“Your buh-bowl might get c-cold Stan,” Bill says. 

“And how was your day, Bill?” Stan has never asked a question more aggressively in his life, and the look on Bill’s face is priceless. 

He sips from his glass of water- they were out of sprite and didn’t want to blow their money on it, so Bill had to resort to a normal drink- before replying. “F-fuh-fine, t-thanks for asking. I got an eighty-s-seven on the puh-p-paper.” 

Beverly claps, loud smacks of her hands to smash the tension in the room. An awful lot of tension was being introduced to the household this week, Stan thinks, pretending he doesn’t know just why that is. 

“Hey Mike,” Eddie says. 

Mike hums around a mouthful of food. Stan finally takes a seat. His dinner is pretty good, he praises himself. 

Eddie takes a bite out of a meatball, chews slowly, then swallows. “Truth or dare.”

Ben raises a brow. Bev and Bill lean forward. Stan continues eating, continuously making futile efforts to tune out the insufferable conversation that is about to take place. 

“Truth,” Mike throws Eddie an unsure look, and then Stan a shrug. 

Bill whistles. 

“Is Stan’s dick circumcised or not?” Eddie smiles deviously.

Stan’s head shoots up. “Jesus christ.” 

Mike shakes his head, face red and laughter bubbling in his mouth. Akin to how Ben said it earlier, he says “we didn’t do that.”

“Oh?” Eddie says. It seemed with Richie gone, Eddie saw fit to fill the role of the residential annoyance. “Why is your shirt collar bent and why does Stan’s hair look like he got electrocuted?” 

Stan raises a finger. “First of all, my hair looks fine.” He knew it did. He’d agonized over it in the bathroom while Mike created a diversion. Said diversion was an impromptu announcement of  _ the floor is lava  _ to which Stan entered to see Eddie clinging onto the arm of the couch, Bev perched on the beanbag by the window, and funny enough, Ben and Bill stacked atop each other on the loveseat. 

“Honey,” Bev says across the table. She stands, leans over, licks her fingers, and runs them through Stan’s hair until she breaks away with a  _ hmph  _ and sits back down. 

Stan stares at her, head thoroughly emptied by the voyeuristic scalp massage. 

“It looks fine if you’re trying is who you’re trying to convince is legally blind.”

Ben nods apologetically. “Whatever you put in it only made it messier.” 

“Hair gel,” Stan says through gritted teeth. 

“Enough bullying,” Mike says. “He looks good, and I do too.” 

They laugh, if only to be louder than the voices in their heads that agree. Mike looks great. When does he not? 

In walks Richie, laden with a backpack too small for a college student which he was far too hot headed to replace and earbuds playing music so loud they could hear the singer. Or maybe that was just Richie singing along. 

He lets the backpack fall off his shoulders and the sound of heavy books hitting the floor makes them all cringe. While he plucks the earbuds from his phone and ears, Stan gets up to warm his dinner. 

“Hello to the six people I love dearly. Let’s all remember together how we made a pact to have study nights once every week and how that humble plan fell away once we actually started college. It’s okay-” He sits down and throws his arms up when a bowl is placed in front of him. “You need not repent, for we are all going to study tonight!” 

A chorus of groans trails around the table.

“Why?” Bill asks. 

Richie looks seconds away from either maniacal laughter or bursting into tears. “I have six tests next week.” 

“You don’t even have six classes, Richie,” Stan says, pushing a napkin and fork in his direction. 

“I-” Richie stares at the ceiling. Then snaps his head back down. “Don’t interrogate me, Stanley! Everyone, how many tests do we have coming up?”

Richie takes a giant bite- more like a great portion of the tangled noodles and meatball chunks in his bowl, while the rest answer. 

“One,” Bev says. 

Bill is nodding. “Another essay and a written test.” 

“Three,” Mike and Ben say. They high-five in solidarity.

“I dunno, it’s written in my planner.” Eddie sits down after placing his empty bowl in the sink. 

They all look at Stan. 

“I had one today,” he says. “And I have a quiz next week that I’m going to pass, so I’m excused.” Truthfully, not that that wasn’t the truth, Stan just wants to resume what he and Mike were up to. His head hurts, and he’s not particularly sure whether to blame it on the dust coating the windowsill or blatant college exhaustion. 

“I wouldn’t mind studying, Rich,” Ben says. 

“Thank you Haystack! You’re the only person in this house who gets it. Who wants to help me write up a comedy routine that’s three to five minutes long?” 

Bill’s jaw falls and his eyes bulge. “ _ T-that’s  _ one of yuh-your assignments?”

Richie looks startled. He nods. 

“I’ll help,” Bill says. “You can t-t-tuh-talk about how it f-feels living with s-six people who are puh-pursuing real careers.” 

In the background, Stan hears Eddie say “you’re a  _ writer,  _ Bill.” He laughs and watches the Richie blow a raspberry. 

Richie lunges across the table. “Billy gets off on a good one!” 

Bill lets his hair be ruffled to the point where he and Stan mirror each other. 

“Go get some paper and a pencil, Richie,” Mike prompts. 

\- 

Mike and Bev help Stan clear the table. Eddie looked apologetic, but they all knew he hated touching dirty dishes, so Bev shoved him away to get his textbooks. To be fair, more of the time on Stan’s part was spent on watching Mike and Beverly flash dance moves at each other across the kitchen, but in the end they’d gotten it cleaned up. 

Bev turns to him after shelving the last of yesterday’s cleaned dishes. “Hey Stan?”

He hums, head buried in the dishwasher occupied with extracting a spoon that was lodged underneath the silverware basket. 

“Ben and I had a talk today,” she starts. He bangs his head on the roof of the dishwasher as he’s wriggling out, and ignores Bev’s  _ are you okay  _ in favor of saying something utterly stupid that wouldn’t stay in his mouth. 

“Please don’t tell me it’s about you guys being in love with everyone in this house.” 

She looks appropriately stunned. Beverly opens her mouth, then closes it. 

Mike finishes depositing their plates into the upper shelves and shuts the dishwasher. He must have given Beverly a look, because her eyes flicker away before returning. 

“Well, maybe.” 

Stan glances dubiously at her. But she’s laughing.   
“No, no, I’m kidding you. I don’t know what the hell that’s about. That’s a weekend discussion. We were talking about getting a pet?” 

It’s Mike turn to mimic Stan’s reaction. Though this time, he’s smiling widely. “Can we get a dog?” He also directs the question at Stan, who shrugs. 

“Why are you asking me?” 

Mike looks stuck between a shrug and throwing his hands up in a gesture Stan can’t predetermine. Beverly pokes her head onto his shoulder. “You’re the sole person we trust to make our choices for us.” 

Mike nods. 

“We can get a dog,” Stan says. ‘

They cheer, fist-bump, and Beverly leaps at him. He hugs her close. They beam at him and the force of their happiness is too much when directed at Stan. 

He raises a finger. “But.” 

Like he’d pressed pause, their expressions freeze. 

“We are all taking care of it. I’m not gonna be the one picking up dog shit in the yard everyday.” 

Bev collapses in a fit of laughter, Mike following suit. 

“You’re such a grump,” Bev giggles. 

“Hey!” Stan closes the dishwasher. “I  _ just  _ told you we can get a dog. This is how you repay me?” 

He must seem rightly incredulous because the two quickly shape up. Bev jokingly lifts her clasped hands in prayer, while Mike sings a segment of a song with puppy eyes that practically rival Ben’s. 

“What kind of dog, anyway?” Stan questions. 

Bev says “German Shepherd,” at the same time as Mike says “Pomeranian.” They look at each other, equally amused, puzzled expressions on their faces. 

At some point, Eddie had walked in. He stands in the doorway with three different textbooks in his arms, and a binder balanced on top of them. “Pomeranian or nothing,” he says.

“Mike, you had big dogs your whole life at the farm. Why do you want a tiny fuzzball running around the house?” 

He looks at Bev and sticks his tongue out just past his lips. “Why not?” 

She giggles. “Ben said he wanted a big dog to take for jogs.” 

“Pomeranians are actually really hyper-energetic dogs. Ben could take one for walks everyday if he wanted, no trouble.”

As a unit, Stan, Bev, and Mike all turn on their heels to stare at Eddie. “How do you know that?” Stan asks. 

Eddie clicks his tongue. “Some of us also want pets, it’s not all about you.” 

Soon after, Bill’s presence is announced by the rustle of a notebook- more papers shoved in between pages than actual attached pages at this point- hitting the table. He’s holding a blue pen, highlighter, and blunt pencil. With a sheepish quirk of his lips, he sits down and splays out the slightly crumpled papers. Stan watches him read until his eyebrows furrow and his mouth lower lip falls, mouth open in thought. 

Eddie had also begun to delve into his reading. One book open and one hand skimming and giving aborted flicks of his wrists so that a smattering of the words on the page are highlighted. He’s not as deep in thought. Stan gathers this by the sporadic flicking of his eyes away from the book at random intervals.

Only when Richie walks in carrying a laptop and a notebook with pencils and pens tucked into the spiral backbone does Stan think to get his own studying supplies. 

When he returns it’s to a sight that brings a smile to sweep across his entire face. Eyes, cheeks, mouth, and all. All eight seats at the table are taken but one, namely by Richie and Bill occupying four by claiming two with their feet. Richie’s cause is understandable. If Bill attempts to justify his own predicament by saying that he has long legs then Stan will shove him out of his chair himself. That leaves Eddie standing at the counter hunched over his books while Ben and Mike, at the table across from Richie and Bill, animatedly converse over an impossible stretch of academic heirlooms- textbooks, flashcards, and a collection of take-apart erasers Stan remembers trading with Bill in second grade. Bev dissects their snack cabinet for red licorice. 

Everyone is talking. There’s the seven of them and the world outside, somehow disembodied from each other. On nights like these when they’re all here, he can feel it thrumming through his veins. That the world can’t touch them. No drop of rain or chunk of hail could come between the way they’re in their own lovely kingdom come.

“You c-can’t write about the-that, Richie,” Bill says. 

Richie makes an aggravated noise but presses the backspace key several times in succession. “Why?”

“I don’t t-th-think anybody’s gonna luh-laugh about you losing at Mario K-Kart except me, s-s-Stan, and Mike.” 

“Damn right,” Mike says lowly as he scribbles onto the back of a flashcard and turns it over. Stan glimpses the words  _ examples of social dialect  _ in neat cursive. 

Richie slams a fist on the table, startling Bill away from annotating a passage and Ben from sketching what looks like a loose framework of a building. “What am I supposed to write about then?” 

Ben scratches at his cheek, where some wiry dark hair had begun to grow. As they’d progressed through senior year, him, Richie, and Bill had become looser with shaving and usually had varying degrees of scruff. Stan, Eddie, and Mike remained clean-shaven. “Maybe about-” 

“Bev so help me God if you don’t get your fucking feet off the counter,” Eddie says. They all turn to the sudden sound of his voice.

She was criss-cross applesauce beside Eddie’s books with a tablet in her hand. Exaggeratedly, she swivels her head away from the screen like an owl and her eyes land on him. 

Ever the clean freak- especially in the kitchen, Eddie stares her down. “We eat off that Bev, I don’t want to consume your nail polish and have to call Poison Control.” 

“I won’t ever paint your nails again.” She speaks jokingly, but Eddie’s resolve falls away and he grits his teeth. His eyes go to his hands, painted in a pattern of black and white with silver pinkies. 

Lead falls from his pencil from how hard he was writing. Eddie plucks it off the paper, throws it away, and clicks the pencil until it was fit to be used again. “At least put on socks.” 

“Of course, Eds.” Bev braces her hands at the edge of the counter, jumps off, and goes to retrieve a pair from the living room.

“ _ So help me god if you don’t get your fucking feet off the counter,”  _ Richie recites as he types. Bill snorts and elbows him. 

“What?” Richie levels him with a look. “It’s better than dick jokes, don’t you think?” 

“Please don’t turn in dick jokes for a school assignment,” Ben begs. 

Richie continues typing. “Keep giving me material and maybe I won’t.” 

Bev had returned with fuzzy pink and white striped socks and was opening a program on her tablet, stylus moving deftly in her hand. Eddie gives her foot a pat and then puts his efforts into his studies. 

Stan takes the final seat at the table.

They had gone otherwise quiet, all subdued into scholarly matters. Mike’s acoustic playlist goes through one ear out the other. Stan forms a pie chart of of financial outlets for his financial planning project due next week. The sound of his pencil strokes and Bill’s occasional exclamation over the packet in his hands drift through the air as they complete their work. This night was kind to them- but Stan had a feeling it would become more grueling over time. This wasn’t even month two of college. Study nights were enjoyable and companionable. How long until they’d be in stiff silence reading words that didn’t make sense and taking tests they didn’t remember learning the facts for? How long until their- or his, motivation sputtered like a car engine operating without enough fuel? And what would become of them when they succumbed to seven neighboring trainwrecks with caffeine addictions and mediocre GPAs? That fear dampened Stan’s amiable mood, and he snapped back into reality with the uncomfortable sensation that somebody was staring at him. 

He lifts his head from the chart- half-colored and half-labelled,- to see Bill giving him a look. It wasn’t one that Stan could decipher- all insomniac eyes and crooked smile and wonky lighting. So Stan just blinks before looking down to his assignment once more. 

“Anybody have a pencil sh-sharpener?”

Mike looks at Bill over a flashcard, the back of it reading some latin phrase, and gives him an unimpressed look. “Use mechanical pencils next time.” 

Bill narrows his eyes. “Anyone?” 

“Say the magic word,” Richie prompts, holding out a fist. Stan thinks it’s possible there isn’t even anything in there, but the tip of Bill’s broken pencil discarded on his paper leads him to believe Richie’s intentions were good. 

“Puh-please?”

“No.” Richie leans back, watching with eyes magnified by his glasses as Bill sputters. 

“Abracadabra,” Ben says. 

Richie shakes his head. 

Bev kicks her heels on the cupboard behind her. “Hocus pocus?” 

“My mom,” Eddie says, voice stale. 

“In my defense, I actually chose ‘0.7 mechanical pencils’ because they  _ are  _ magic, but I’ll take that too.” Richie opens his hand to bare a plastic red pencil sharpener and Bill takes it. 

It’s a grand total of five minutes before Eddie thumps his head from a textbook and groans out “can I have more spaghetti?” 

Bev laughs, does a neat trick with twirling her stylus around her hand, and then fetches the last morsel of it- only three or four forkfulls, really. Nevertheless, Eddie takes it and nudges away his book labelled  _ BUSINESS ANALYTICS.  _

“I pay two hundred dollars for this and I haven’t absorbed any knowledge,” Eddie says after he’s angrily chewed his first bite. 

Bill raises his pencil. “Amen.” 

“Take a deep breath, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, shit-eating grin etched across his face. 

Eddie stabs the air with his fork. “Don’t call me that, Richie.” 

The two sector off into playful arguing that likely serves as Eddie’s stress reliever, and Stan hears Ben scoot his chair over to Mike. “I was at the 3D printer today,” he says. 

Mike is a dot in Stan’s vision as he leans closer to Ben. “Yeah?” 

But Stan does avert his attention from his paper to the wall behind Ben and Mike when Ben produces an orange figure from his pocket. 

“A farm?” 

“It’s your farm. I know you miss it sometimes so I th-” 

“ _ WHAT’S THIS?”  _ The moment is interrupted by Richie getting an eyeful of the letters on the fridge. 

“You didn’t see that until now,” Stan says. “Observant.” 

Richie frowns. “And you…” he reads, “did something with Mike?” 

“That is correct.”

“Spill the beans,” Richie says. He plops back down in his seat, adjusting his glasses with his eyes fixed on Stan. ‘

“I plead the fifth.” Stan was shutting his book anyhow, having finished his chart and sensing the studious peace had run its course. 

Richie whines petulantly. “Double dog dare you.” 

“No Richie, we plead the fifth,” Mike pipes up. Ben was smiling and Stan swore the two were holding hands under the table like bashful kids. 

“Are you gonna mention the  _ RIP BILL  _ or…?” 

Richie looks to Bev who asked and then to Bill, who hadn’t zoned out of writing in the margins of an article just yet. Considering a warning kind, Stan taps Bill on the shoulder just as Richie barrels towards him. 

“Bill, you’re not dead, but if you keep reading this Robert Frost poem you might die,” Richie says. “So I demand you get out of that seat and feel alive.” 

“F-feel alive?” Bill asks, unable to combat a smile. 

Richie pushes him to the fridge and puts his hands over his. They rearrange, and Stan sees everyone in the room watching as they break away, leaving  _ KISS BILL.  _

“Going once!” Richie says. 

Bill bats him away, laughing. “I’m  _ g-going  _ to bed.”

As if the twenty minutes total of reviewing their schoolwork got to them that quickly, the rest follow. Stan lingers while he packs if only to take in the way Richie hesitates to let go when Mike wraps him in a hug, and how Bill gives Bev a wet kiss on the cheek and she doesn’t wipe it off like she used to, or how Eddie leans against Ben and they talk in hushed whispers about who knows what. Stan thinks maybe he can see it now, how they’re all a part of something. 

He goes to sleep that night easily, with lights behind his eyes entertaining him with a future where he is shameless, and where he is one of seven people who are all very, very in love.

-

He’s woken up by Mike’s hand stroking his hair, and it’s probably the most peaceful way he’s entered the waking world in a long time. With eyes that are still bleary with sleep, he sees that Mike was kneeled by his bed holding a glass of water. 

“G’morning,” he says, voice gravelly and heavy with sleep. 

Mike smiles and Stan returns the favor. “Me and Ben made breakfast.” 

“What did you make?” 

Mike’s hand leaves after it has finished its journey of tracing the inclination of a curl. Stan clears his throat to muffle a poignant whine. 

“Everything,” Mike says. “Eggs, toast, bacon.” 

Stan pulls himself up until he’s sitting, relishing in the way Mike helps rouse him with gentle hands. “How early did you wake up?” 

“I went with Ben on his morning work-out, so probably five o’clock.” 

The statement leads Stan to zero in on the faint sheen of sweat across Mike’s forehead and above his upper lip. Still sleep-hazy and relinquishing the fact that Mike would reciprocate, Stan leans forward to kiss him. 

And Mike does. Mike’s hands come back, to Stan’s delight. They share the kiss for a minute or two before Mike pulls back. “You have class, sweetheart.” 

The pet-name was an instant shot of caffeine to Stan. He finds the will to get to his feet and throw on a cardigan over his pajamas. Mike stays there, watching with mirth that gives Stan a giddy feeling he longs to feel more often. Before it slips his mind, Stan takes the glass Mike had put on the nightstand and takes his medicine and a drink from it. 

Wordlessly, they both head downstairs. It seemed only fitting that the little barn Ben crafted for Mike was sitting on the table below the bulletin board decorated with polaroids. Stan smiles at it. A small, private thing. 

All seven of them are awake. Ben nods noncommittally from the counter at Stan, also looking otherwise tired out. His hair is flat on his head with sweat and morning dew. Eddie, Bill, and Bev are at the table. Eddie’s shoving Bill’s head off his shoulder with a scathing remark on his lips. 

“I heard you coughing last night, headass, and if you even  _ think  _ of getting me sick, that’s gonna blow up in your face. I got my flu shot on Tuesday.”

Eddie hadn’t gotten his flu shot last year because his appointment was at the same time Ben had a track race and he’d promised to go. You’d think he would have naturally gone to the pharmacy where they offer them, but Eddie borderline refused. Something about his distrust Mr. Keene or his daughter, Greta, who ran the pharmacy. As a result, he’d gotten the flu for the first time. And since he’d never built up the immunity, it hit him harder than a freight train. He was quarantined inside his home for a week and a half. He’d called each of them every night with a whiny, gruesome report of his condition. 

Bill surrenders, sliding down in his chair so his head rests on the back of it. “Th-that’s unf-fair Eddie, you’re all warm.” 

“Because I sleep with heavy blankets, not a sheet.” 

Bev watches them idly, sipping from a teacup and scooping eggs onto her fork. 

From the counter opposite Ben, Richie points at Eddie. “Actually, you sleep with ten trillion pillows, Eds.” His mouth contained more bacon than saliva, at that moment, and it was apparent in his voice. 

“I’m living comfortably!” Eddie throws his hands up. “Sue me!” 

“Top’a th’mornin to you, Urine,” Richie greets, raising a cup of orange juice. 

Stan debates with himself whether standing in Richie’s face until he corrects himself and says ‘Uris’ is worth it. He chooses not to. Instead, he gives a flat look and scoops some of the scrambled eggs onto the plate Mike handed him. 

A soft arm rounds his torso for a second, and he can feel that it’s Ben’s based solely off of the muscle factor. It feels nice there, and he mourns it when it’s gone and Ben was just reaching for something behind him. 

“It’s Friday, guys and girl. Do we have any plans?” 

Bev looks at everyone in the room. “I don’t know about you but I’m going to bed at like, eleven. A bitch is tired.” 

“I s-second that,” Bill replies over his toast.

“A night in actually sounds good,” Ben says. Eddie agrees in monosyllables. 

Mike digs in to the food as well. “It’s official, we’re doing a night in.” 

“I’m on grocery duty today after class,” Richie says then. “Any requests?” 

His mistake was asking them all at once, come to think of it. Richie is instantly bombarded with answers, to which he flinched and made a show of composing himself. Though, there wasn’t much composing to do wearing a flannel with literally every color in the rainbow on it over a comic  _ superman!  _ shirt and green jeans. 

“Don’t get your dicks in a twist, I-” Beverly clears her throat. 

Richie bows. “Don’t get your dicks or your january embers in a twist, tell me one by one.” 

Ben groans. “Stop bringing that back, Rich, please.” 

“Why? It’s cute!” Mike points out. 

Ben looks at Stan with desperation shining in his eyes. 

“Can’t help you, Hanscom. It was cute,” Stan says.

Last Valentine’s Day, Ben had written them all poems, and they’d all kept them and recited them throughout the year. Ben being Ben, he’d grown embarrassed within a few days of it, but Stan knew the sappy poems were treasured. And in the wake of current events and superstitions, we wondered if they meant anything more. 

“I c-can’t believe I even b-bother,” Bill sighs. “Ben’s b-b-been the true puh-poet all along.” 

Richie sighs wistfully. “ _ Your heart is bigger than the frames of your glasses.”  _

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Ben has covered his ears. Mike starts to recite his poem, beginning with  _ you are the sun to my sky,  _ and Eddie as well, saying  _ inhaler fumes; I have come to love-  _ and is cut off by Beverly’s  _ my heart burns there too.  _

Stan would have joined, but he thinks that the line  _ we are birds of a feather you and me, flying far and flying free  _ is his own to keep. Ben’s poem is stashed in his Pandora’s Box, which falls open wider day by day. 

All of their classes start late, and it’s only seven in the morning, so they gather around the dining room table to savor the agreeable morning.

“... Doritos for Bill, protein packs for Ben and Eddie, and trail mix and sugar cookies for Bev?” 

“You forgot apples,” Stan mentions. 

Richie looks up from his phone, where he had been typing the list. “What if I don’t want to keep the doctors away?” 

“You never kept them away in the first place. I bet they can smell your ass-breath from here,” Stan says. 

Eddie leans across the table to high-five him while the rest watch in frank amusement. Bev giggles. “Those are dentists, Stan.”

Richie huffs. “That’s rude to say to the guy who’s paying for your cashews and grandpa food, Stanley.” 

“We have a joint bank account, Richie. Technically we’re all paying.” 

As he walks up the stairs to presumably brush his teeth, Richie puts his hands, fingers splayed out from his ears and exclaims “I’m Stan Uris and I am  _ not  _ Stan the Man anymore because the enormous stick up my ass has turned me into a gremlin who’s rude to his friends!”

Stan smiles brightly and flips Richie the finger. 

Eddie pads over to the fridge, not yet dressed for class and bundled in a red sweatshirt and the shorts he slept in that he’d never grown out of. Stan wondered how his legs weren’t unfathomably cold. Eddie reaches for a tupperware container likely containing the leftovers from Mike’s dinner earlier that week. 

“I’m bringing this today, it’s mine,” he says. 

Bev slams her fist on the table, momentarily disturbing her glass of water. “Fuck!” 

“I can always make more,” Mike laughs. 

“You can, but we wouldn’t make you do that,” Ben tells him, eyeing Bev with something that made Stan’s chest ache. 

The fridge door closes and Stan notes it not from the sound of it closing but from the snicker that comes from Eddie. He’s biting his lip and staring at the letters still there.  _ KISS BILL.  _

Stan got a front row seat to Eddie stalking over to Bill, swiftly grabbing his chin, and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. The writer pulls back with a flourish. Bill’s face is blooming in a shade of red Stan’s missed.

“E-Eddie?” 

At the expense of everyone else in the room, Eddie clears his throat. He points at the fridge as if it was going to explain everything for him. 

He pats Bill’s hair. “Well, someone had to do it.” 

“Someone had to do what?” Richie walks back in, taking in the atmosphere of the room with merriment. Stan takes the opportunity to look around. Bill is staring intensely at the table while Eddie, brows furrowed and nose scrunched, studies him for any signs of uncomfort. Surprisingly, Bill only seemed surprised- caught off guard. Beverly plows eggs into her mouth as if she’ll never get another chance to taste them again. Reading her body language though, Stan sees, underneath the stray strands of russet hair that had fallen into her face, skin darkened with a blush also. The shuffling on the tile were from Ben’s socks, and his thumb was tapping at his phone screen, which was blank and turned off. Mike looked the most serene, meeting Richie’s curiosity with a barely discernible simper at the ends of his lips. 

Richie looks at Bill, to Eddie- who looks at Bill and then to Richie- and then Richie looks at Stan before landing on Mike. Ben coughs. Bev’s fork scrapes against her plate. 

“Kiss Bill,” Eddie says simply, 

“Ok,” says Richie, before prodding over and sitting in the seat beside Bill that previously belonged to Eddie.

Bill’s expression is a ludicrous repertoire of brows raised into his hairline, lips hung open, and his hand white-knuckling the edge of the table. He looks beautiful, Stan thinks, and shuts his mind off before it can soak in his take of Richie kissing Bill like a sponge. 

But Richie doesn’t back down. He leans in, slowly enough to grant Bill time to get up or back away, but Bill stays seated. He even twitches towards Richie at the last second. And his eyes flutter shut as they kiss. It’s no longer than three seconds, but Stan seems to have lived three years in no time. He feels it in his bones, as hollow as they are, and he feels it in the way his toes curl and his face burns. It’s not jealousy, and it’s not quite love either, he isn’t ready to come to terms with that yet even though he knows full well it’s there when he is ready, but it’s significant and decadent in a wonderful way. 

Spellbound is very on-the-dot for Bill when Richie pulls away from him. Haphazardly, and in the wreckless, Bill Denbrough manner only he can master so fluorescently, he leans over Richie and leads Bev into a kiss, too. 

She doesn’t look perturbed, and smiles as their lips meet. Her hair and Bill’s hand block the image, but they all know it’s tension long broken when they seperate. Stan peeks at Ben. He’s still frozen and against the counter, but instead of looking broken or even cracked, nothing but earnest admiration crosses his face. Stan isn’t sure whether it’s directed at Bev or Bill. Perhaps both, a little voice in his head whispers. 

Bill makes his rounds, casually leaving the table and rounding up to Mike. The height difference strikes them all in that moment, how Bill’s head is tilted at a thirty degree angle and he still manages to give off the energy that he’s always given off- the same passion and acceptance and unquestioning leadership that lured them all to him in the first place. Mike looks down at him, features austere and open to compliment Bill’s rigidness. 

They kiss, simply a peck but they both look into each other’s eyes as if they’ll find hidden gold there for several passing moments after. The domesticity of it drives Stan feral with the need to be kissed next. He knows it’s coming and the thought makes sweat pile in his hands. This is happening. It’s really happening. He inhales steadily, silently, keeping composed in the eyes of all that aren’t him. 

But the composure cracks when Bill playfully turns to him, smiles with a flirty curve to his lips that Stan hasn’t been on the receiving end of for a year now, and then full-backs to stand in front of Ben. 

Ben looks down at him, looking surely the most nervous of the few, but nevertheless smiling a little, as Bill closes the gap between them. As Bill breaks away, he’s already babbling. His eyes sparkle and glow and Stan feels funny thinking that it looks like a kid on Christmas day when he himself doesn’t traditionally celebrate Christmas. 

“F.R.I.E.N.D.S,” Ben says. Stan is distracted as Bill whirls around, heels making ugly sounds on the floor Stan would complain about in any other circumstance. “This happened on F.R.I.E.N.D.S.” 

“Oh my god,” Bev says behind him, voice airy and fragile on the brink of laughter. “That episode was a prophecy.” 

Mike laughs. 

Bill kisses Stan. And if they were in a TV show, fireworks would go off. Maybe credits would roll. It was that good. Stan became comatose at once, bewitched with the same wonderment he’d been washed over with whenever he was with Bill. Yes, Bill was a college student teetering on irresponsibility and profound impulse, but he was also their friend to the very core. More than that now, Stan thinks. The kiss is leisure and filled with enriching, exhilarating familiarity that the two had once shared. If it hadn’t been evident before, it had surely become blatant that Bill and Stan had done this before. 

He’s not sure which of them pulls back first, but when they do, Stan’s hand is on Bill’s neck and Bill’s hand had inched from the counter to hover above Stan’s clothed hip. 

“Does t-that make me Ch-Chandler?” Bill asks, sitting back at the table flippantly with a skip in his step. 

Eddie makes eyes at Ben, who shrugs, and Mike and Stan share a look of bemused elation. 

“Ben’s Phoebe,” Richie says. 

Ben, having regained his senses, kicks the leg of Richie’s chair. “You’re Joey.” 

“Nuh-uh-uh.” Eddie shakes his head. “Switch the two.” 

Ben looks flattered, and puts his hand on his chest. “I’m Joey?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. 

In the background, Mike shakes his head. “You’re better than Joey!”

Stan sees Ben and Eddie trade soft looks even then, and thinks back to Ben questioning the other day,  _ I’m in love with Eddie?  _ And Stan thinks it wasn’t a question anymore.

“Sorry to disturb this tender lovin’ atmosphere, but I’ve gotta go to class. Bye, fuckos.” Richie’s backpack thumps against his back as he heaves it on and leaves. Though, not before squeezing Mike’s shoulder and sparing them all a quick looks that elicit the growing sense of  _ change.  _

Stan, in a love-hate relationship with change, fights to say something to make it feel normal again. 

“You’re Monica,” Mike says liltingly to him. Bill barks out a laugh, nodding in agreement. 

He frowns. “I don’t watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S.” 

“Bossy, control-freak, etcetera..” Eddie explains. 

“You say that like you’re not thankful,” Stan says. 

Boom. Normal. They give him identical stares- sarcastic and reassuring. 

-

Stan elects to start getting ready for class next, and leaves a room that had somehow evaporated any awkwardness that could have been culminated. Ben, Eddie, Mike, and Bev take the seats at the table and clean their plates. Stan doesn’t realize that’s Bill’s followed him upstairs until the latter sneezes loudly into his elbow. 

“Bless you,” Stan says. 

Bill thanks him, and leans back on the staircase railing. Over Bill’s right shoulder, Stan can see Eddie jauntingly punching Mike in the shoulder and Mike howling out, acting wounded. Bev and Ben laugh. Ben’s arm fits around her now, like it was always meant to be there. 

“I know we left off on kind of a bad f-fuh-foot after we h-had that whole f-friends with benefits t-thing.” Bill plays with his hands as he talks, tugging on his thumbs and cracking his knuckles. 

More so because it makes Stan jittery just watching, he seizes Bill’s hands in his own and both of their eyes go to their held hands between them. That’s when Stan feels steadied enough to gather his bearings and reply. “We did. Are you suggesting something?” 

Bill laughs without opening his mouth- a dry, bouncing sound in his throat. “I th-think so.” 

“One thing.” Stan taps sequences of what probably equates to morse code on the flesh of Bill’s palm. “We’re not friends with benefits anymore.” 

“Wuh-We’re more than that,” Bill supplies hopefully.

“We’re more than that,” Stan says back. He’d had the upper hand the whole conversation, having always been somewhat a natural with his words. Though Bill was a writer, he excelled on paper better than he fared in conversation. However, Bill swiftly prevails when he tightens his grip on their hands and lifts them up to his mouth. One soft press of his lips to the skin there sends Stan’s heartbeat through the roof and his head reeling. He scorns himself for reacting immaturely but all thought leaves his head when he sees Bill looking at him like  _ that.  _

He shakes his hands from Bill’s and backs into his bedroom. “We’re more than that,” he says again. It goes unspoken that that principle doesn’t apply to just them. 

-

The only one still left in the kitchen after Stan’s finished his shower and gone downstairs now dressed in a crisp white button-up and dark jeans with a brown fake-leather jacket in the hand that wasn’t holding his backpack is Bev. She told him Mike had out for a job interview. 

She looks as if she’s just gotten out of the shower too. Their house has four bathrooms, two upstairs and two downstairs. Though- they technically only utilize three, claiming the one downstairs near the garage is haunted. It started with Eddie, who’d bolted into the living room the day they’d moved in shouting that the lights turned off on their own. Mike had changed the lightbulb, but the next day Beverly alleged that the water changed temperature- from hot to freezing cold, without her touching the knob. Stan told her it was probably the crappy quality of the old house, because sure, it ran otherwise cheap for them and they’d snatched the house because they were idiot college students who wanted to pay less money. There ought to be some issues. It ran smoothly until Ben and Richie became psyched out when they’d been trying to install one of those shower radio things and they swore the shampoo bottles had fallen on their own like bowling pins. Bill bought caution tape and spread it all over the door within the next week. 

Bev smiles kindly at him, hair in spindles around her face and dark with moisture. She’s wearing a red skirt around a shirt that might be the same as Stan’s. Having noticed the similarity as well, she laughs. 

“I bet if we walk down sixth avenue we’ll be asked to model for photography students,” she tells him. 

Stan returns her smile with one of his own. “Why don’t we find out?”

-

Bev is right. She’s always right. Their universities are only about ten minutes away from each other, plus the twenty minute brisk stroll out of their neighborhood, and the air is dancing on the line of cool breeze and subtle warmth swept from the sun. 

“How did your fashion final go?” 

She bites her lip. “Your outfit was a seventy-five, Eddie’s was a sixty-eight, and Richie’s was a ninety-four. Overall I got eighty out of one hundred points.” 

He puts a hand on the small of her back. “You deserve a higher score. The clothes were one of a kind and exquisite, okay?”

“Thanks, Stanny.” 

“Not to mention the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn in my life,” he grins cheekily. 

She giggles. “Don’t inflate my ego. I have to make outfits for each color of the rainbow by November, now.” 

“There’s seven colors in the rainbow,” Stan says. 

“Pick your poison, Stan The Man.” 

He hums thoughtfully, relishing in her laugher. Beverly laughed a lot, and sometimes she laughed for the Hell of it- humorous comment or not. Stan lived for it. Her cheerfulness was infectious. 

He settles on red. He tells her that much. 

She types it onto her phone. He sees that she’d already put down a few names- herself for the color violet, Ben for blue, Bill for green, and Mike for yellow. 

“Did you already ask them?” 

Beverly shakes her head. “Nope. I know what colors they’ll look good in.” 

“Why did I get to choose?” 

She doesn’t offer a reply, merely budging against his side. 

Seconds later, a photography student with blonde curls and a frostbitten red nose approaches them. She’s wearing a thick, wooly coat and Stan guesses that she’s from a far more temperate state. Possibly California. 

“Hi, uh, my name’s Pat.” She thrusts out an arm, jostling the scarf and camera slung around her neck. “Nicetomeetyou, can we take a few photos? It’s for an assignment.” One dim gesture from her other hand loosely indicates the other two loitering behind her. They wave. One of them lifts a camera. 

“Sure!” Beverly tosses a sparkling look at Stan over her shoulder as Pat beckons the rest of her troupe. 

“Adrian, you get that angle-” she points at the fire hydrant to their left. “Uh, Don, you want the front?” He scoots in front of them with a friendly thumbs up. “I’ll take the right.” 

Stan and Bev parted ways once their photos were taken, sharing a warm hug and wishing each other a good day. 

-

He and Richie walk in the door first, being greeted by Mike on arrival. Stan, tired to his bones, had made the short trek to Tish and gotten Richie to drive them home. 

“Good day?” Mike asks them. 

Richie moves his hand in an  _ so-so  _ motion while Stan unties his shoes. “Okay, and yours?” 

Mike leads them both to the couch, where they sit on either side of him. Stan’s head has drifted into the junction between Mike’s neck and shoulder before he can consciously sit back up. He doesn’t move, content. 

“I got a job!” 

Now he moves. In unison, him and Richie both look up, sitting ramrod straight. 

“Congrats, man!” Richie says while Stan asks where it is. 

Mike sits up a little too. “I got an email requesting a student teacher, so I guess I’m the student teacher to some history class, I think.” 

“This could be big,” Richie says. “It’s, like a few steps away from your dream job!” 

“You’ll get there sooner than you think, Mikey.” Stan shifts so that he’s sitting up but he’s still pressed close to Mike. Richie looks between the two with profound humor and fondness. Mike returns the look with just as much fervor. 

“Will you guys listen as I complain about students?” Mike asks, briefly laying his head on top of each of theirs for a second as he talks. Richie chuckles. Stan can feel it across their chests. 

Mike spares him a look and adjusts his glasses. Richie says through bitten, chapped lips “Mikey, you wouldn’t gossip about children.” 

Mike runs a hand through Richie’s hair and Stan can also feel how Richie keens at the feeling. “I talk about you guys all the time,” Mike says. 

They burst into tired laugher. Mike got a job, Richie’s got homework, and Stan’s got a fuzziness in his eyes that reminds him he’s tired but oh, so happy. 

Beverly walks in, followed by Bill, who held the door open for her. She waves at them, kicks off her sandals, and jumps onto the couch to lay across their laps. Bill comes slower, taking the time to put his stuff down instead of throw it, and then falls onto the couch next to Stan. 

“Mike got a job,” Stan says. 

With a squeal, Beverly throws her head off of Richie’s lap to embrace him. He pats her back, smiling into her shoulder. 

“Where did you get huh-hired?” Bill slumps across Stan. 

Once Bev had let herself lay down again, Mike speaks. 

“A school. I’m a student teacher!” 

The door opens at the end of Mike’s sentence to reveal Ben. “You’re a student teacher?” 

“I’m a student teacher!” 

“He’s a student teacher!” Bev and Richie say at once. Richie looks down to grin at her. Stan rolls his eyes. 

“Should I call Eddie?” Ben’s already getting out his phone. 

Bill drum rolls on his thighs. “Yes!” 

Eddie answers on the first ring. Though, the phone picks up his road rage before he can acknowledge them.  _ -up yours dickwad! Learn how to use a damn turn signal! _

They muffle their laughter using pillows. Though Mike and Bill do just fine using the humans around them. Stan doesn’t mind being subject to their heads on his shoulders if only for a second. Ben sits on the floor at the foot of the couch, tinkering with his settings and turning on speakerphone.

“ _ Hello?”  _

“H-Hey Eddie,” Bill says. 

“ _ Last I checked Ben doesn’t stutter, who’s all here?” _

“Basically everyone but you,” Stan answers. 

“ _ See, I’d be there if this traffic actually did any moving. Hey! You! Ever heard of a-”  _

Richie coughs up a storm, so they can’t hear whatever treat Eddie was about to say. An apologetic smile crosses his face. “Spit went down the wrong pipe,” he says dryly. 

“ _ Sorry. Anyways, what’s up?”  _

“Mike’s hired!” Ben glances excitedly between Mike and the phone. 

“ _ Holy shit! Where?”  _

Mike takes the phone when Ben hands it to him. “A school. I’m a student teacher there.” 

_ “Mike! That’s great, I’m so proud of you!”  _

Agreements come from the depths of the living room. The phone call ends. 

“Should we talk about what happened this morning, anyone?” 

They all look at Richie, who gives them a dubious stare in return. 

“Uh,” says Bill. 

Everyone else’s replies are along the same lines. 

Usually on a Friday night, they would have a movie night or game night. Their first week, they’d even done karaoke. There Stan had learned never to underestimate Eddie’s ability to sing Cyndi Lauper at the top of his lungs or how Bill never failed to be off-key. Mike, Richie, and Bev were actually pretty good. As for himself, he’d tapped out after his rendition of  _ Take Me To Church  _ followed by  _ Movement  _ by Hozier and watched as Richie cajoled Ben into a New Kids On The Block song. Ben, after releasing his self-consciousness, had unabashedly sang it better than the artist, or at least they all thought so. Tonight, the thought of even emotionally investing in a movie seemed tiresome. And a discussion on something they all knew was there but would be hard to tackle anyway was a mortifying ordeal that could wait until Saturday. 

“Tomorrow,” Stan says. 

“Yep,” Ben agrees. “I’ll text Eddie.” 

Mike scrambles around the bodies framing him to sit up. “When’s he gonna get home?” 

Speak of the devil, Eddie Kaspbrak plows through their door looking more like a zombie than a human. His eyes are screwed shut as he narrowly misses a collision with the wall, and he falls into Mike’s arms as soon as they’re around him. 

“Proud f’you,” he mutters into Mike’s chest. Mike smiles at them. 

“Tired, Eds?” Richie asks from the couch. 

Eddie’s middle finger answers enough. Still, Stan lets himself breathe lighter. He’s glad Eddie was himself even though the college-given exhaustion.

Bill gets up and adds himself to the hug, ducking under Mike’s other arm. Richie follows, sandwiching Eddie, and Bev parallels Bill. Ben holds out his hand, which Stan takes and they find their niche, too. 

“Tomorrow we’ll have a talk,” Bev says. 

His blood runs cold because those words frighten anybody who is right in the head, but he feels that it’ll all turn out okay. 

-

It’s Saturday, and even though a mythical, magic lighthearted feeling had carried him to his room, it had left at his bedside. Stan had slept fine, albeit plagued by intrusive thoughts.  _ What if they thought he was gross?  _ No. They wanted this too.  _ What if some of them back out and make it awkward?  _ Neither Eddie nor Ben would do that to any of them. This was an all-or-nothing situation, he was sure.  _ What if they don’t love you?  _ They do, he tells himself. They do. 

He’s sinking back into sleep when the walls of his eyelids turn red and his door slams open. Stan shoots out of bed, blinded by the light coming through the doorway and surprised to see a disheveled Eddie standing there. 

He’s wearing neon blue shorts and not one, but two hoodies over each other. Stan thinks the outfit is lopsided- an overheated torso and bare, chilly legs. But he doesn’t mind when Eddie looks hysterical with his hair ruffled to Hell and back. Eddie divebombs onto his bed, making a mess of the caramel sheets and fleece blanket there. He lays halfway on Stan’s lap but still groggy, Stan can’t find it in himself to care.

Eddie flicks Stan’s jaw. Stan stares down his nose at him as Eddie talks. “Rise and shine, asshat. We’re having confessions and cinnamon rolls for breakfast.” 

“Wonderful,” Stan says, reaching for his pill bottle. “Would you mind offering me a better explanation?” 

Eddie sniffs, withering slightly under Stan’s vacant look. “What else do you want from me, Uris? Bill wanted cinnamon rolls, so he ordered seven. Bill also kissed us all yesterday, so I think that’s something we should all discuss for the sake of this household.” 

“You kissed Bill,” Stan says bluntly. 

“Get out of bed.” Eddie swats at Stan with a smile, who ducks under his arm to get off the bed. 

“Make the bed,” Stan bites back.

“Watch me,” Eddie challenges. He slides off the bed and maneuvers himself to yank the sheets up. Stan watches with an unhidden, adoring eye as Eddie administers the same devotion to making his bed as he would put into checking them for traces of sickness during the beginning of flu season as he always did without fail. 

While Eddie’s busying himself, Stan goes to brush his teeth. 

Upon his return, his room was empty, left clean and bare as he preferred it. 

-

Downstairs is anything  _ but  _ clean and bare. In the living room, Richie is stretched across the couch in a grey shirt with holes at the bottom and oversized navy boxer shorts with an arm over his face. He’s groaning something unintelligible to Eddie and Ben. Ben’s sitting at Richie’s feet- clothed in socks decorated with a Pac-Man pattern. Eddie is curled into the loveseat. 

“Staniel!” He casts his attention to Richie. 

“Should we watch The Office or Parks and Rec?” 

Ben whispers over a cupped hand. “Parks and Rec.” Eddie rears over the arm of the loveseat to jut an elbow at him. “No, no. The Office!” 

“These two,” Richie sighs at Stan. 

“Let’s try the news,” Stan tells them. 

He leaves them chuckling as he walks into the kitchen. Bev is nursing a steaming tea and Mike is selecting a music station through the speaker attached to his phone in the kitchen. Stan hears the end of an Elton John song and the beginning melody of something by Hozier. Stan recognizes it as  _ Nobody _ , as he used to obsessively listen to Hozier’s discography. He still does. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Mike says merrily. 

Stan tosses him a grin as he takes a seat beside Bev. “Morning yourself.” 

Bev laughs, an easy, heedless smile on her face as she watches them. She looks particularly human this morning- with mascara bits hanging below her eyes and her hair still unbrushed in twin messy braids. Stan thinks Ben did them for her- as he’d learned how to do them in high school and often helped her with her hair whenever she was stressed. He thinks Beverly looks ethereal. The flannel hanging off her shoulder adds to the illusion too. He wants to lay his head on the skin there, but he resists and snatches a sip of her drink instead. 

“Stan careful it’s hot-” 

He puts the cup down. Yes, his tongue is red hot and burning. No, he doesn’t dare indicate it. 

The wafting smell of frosting and cinnamon comes to them before Bill, who enters wearing a flannel that complimented Bev’s- baby blue like hers. Come to think of it, they’re probably both Bill’s. He had a tendency to buy doubles of things because his foolhardiness inclined him to destroy clothes pretty quickly. (i.e. the instance where he’d gotten fancied up for prom their junior year and ruined his getup by jumping out of Eddie’s car to stomp on a Pro-Life sign. Eddie chewed him out for days afterwards. Bev wore his musty tie around her neck for a week.) He’s carrying two paper bags and drops them on the table.

Richie, Ben, and Eddie tumble into the room after him. 

Bill looks at Mike, grinning. “Tuh-turn on some r-real music y-you loser.” 

“Oh yeah?” Mike puts his hands on hips hips. “What’s real music to you, baby?” 

The nickname seem to have slipped out involuntarily, because he slaps his hands over his mouth instantly. 

Bill doesn’t falter despite the color in his cheeks, and steals Mike’s phone. He taps into it for a prolonged amount of time while Ben passes around boxes containing cinnamon rolls. 

The beginning notes of  _ Shallow  _ from A Star Is Born come to life in their kitchen. Eddie fiercely shakes his head while Richie groans and Bev adds an urgent  _ mm-mm.  _ Bill turns to them, dramatically lip syncing with shock written across his face. 

“This is g-good!” 

“Not after playing it six hundred times it isn’t,” Stan says. 

Bill scowls. “You guh-guys are j-just mean.” 

Mike laughs at him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m turning Pentatonix back on now.” 

“I don’t think we should take music advice from a guy who only listens to film scores,” Eddie says, digging his silverware into his cinnamon roll. He habitually refused to use the provided plastic forks and knives, claiming that even though they usually came in a wrapper, they could be rich with bacteria. 

Sitting down and opening his own box to flood the room with another round of the pleasant smell, Bill frowns at Eddie. “I listen t-t-to them because they h-help me write.” 

“Whatever you say, Billy,” Richie sing-songs, chewing his food. Stan halfheartedly slaps him for it, to which he grabs Stan’s hand before it can hit him and chews quieter. 

“Ben cuh-cried when w-we watched it.” 

Ben swallows his morsel. “What’d you say that for?” 

They lapse into a quiet filled with the absent stirring of eating and whatever soulful music drifts from Mike’s speaker. It’s become tangible- the springing seeds of whatever  _ this  _ was were growing into delightful flowers- lilies, tulips, and obviously roses, too. Stan swore on the vehement looks they were exchanging across the table that he’d nurture this garden until his dying day. 

“When are we gonna have the talk?” Mike asks them. 

“Mikey, I really thought you’d know about the birds and the bees by now, but if you insist-” 

They all hush Richie, who retreats happily. 

Ben hums. “Can I shower first? I went for a jog and I feel like I smell like shit.” 

Beverly punches his shoulder cheekily. They share a sweet smile in the gleam of the morning sun. “We can all freshen up.” 

“Meet in the living room around one?” 

They each give Eddie a nod. 

-

It’s 12:56. Stan’s hair is in wet curls on his head, and he’s adjusting the turtleneck he’s wearing for the fifth time yet- tucking his fingers precariously under the white linen until it’s smooth as the day he bought it. Ideally smoother, he thinks. 

If he feels comfortable, why is every tendon is his body stretched to thin so that his skin feels too tight? Why does his face run hot enough so that the air conditioning orbiting through the house stings his cheeks? 

He shakes his head and inhales, exhales. It’ll be fine. It’s just his friends. It’s just his friends that he loves to the moon and back. Scratch that. To a galaxy at the end of the universe and back. 

He walks down the stairs like a man marching to his grave- although, he couldn’t feel more alive. Or, maybe he could. 

Already there, Ben meanders in his own thoughts around the room while Bill and Bev share the couch. Once Stan is visible, Ben softens and goes to sit with them. Stan joins. 

Ben fidgets. “Is anyone else sweating profusely or is that just me?” 

“I th-think I’m having heart murmurs,” Bill says flatly. 

Bev and Stan look at each other across Bill, thoroughly bemused. 

Richie comes next, looking uncharacteristically serious. He’s out of his wacky potpourri of clothes tailored from Misfit Island and now holding his hands across his stomach, draped in a  _ COMEDY SPORTS  _ hoodie from their high school. He sits in the loveseat and says nothing. 

“Heya Trashmouth, anything to suh-say that’ll make us feel less w-weird?”

A smile flits across his lips, then. “I love you all so stupidly much.” 

“That’s not grammatically correct in the slightest,” Stan says, meaning fully  _ I love you too.  _

Ben and Bill are smiling. 

“We love you too, Rich,” Beverly says to him. 

Eddie bounces off the staircase and hops onto the arm of the couch closest to Stan. He’s vibrating with eccentric energy as he did when he was nervous. The energy was the same as the start of an intense roller coaster- intimidating but worth it in the end. The beginning of something that’ll make you say, with utmost confidence,  _ let’s do it again.  _

Least is Mike, who arrives timely, on the dot at 1:00. He’s already smiling as he reaches the carpet and still doing so as he sits between Eddie and Stan. He gently puts arms around both of them. Stan knows he isn’t the only one to lean into it. Eddie was curled into Mike’s arm like it was his personal lifeline.

“Who wants to say something?” Eddie pulls on the sleeves of his shirt. 

Rip it off like a band-aid, Stan bids himself. “I think that I’m in love with all of you,” he says. Once the heaviest boulder is skipped off into the river, he can handle the smaller, lighter ones. “It started a few years ago. I thought I was just crazy or something, but we’re all so close and we went through  _ Derry  _ and we got through it together. I think if we’re together we can overcome anything.” 

They’re nodding. Good sign. 

Richie sits up. “I agree with you, Stan The Man, smarty-pants.” He punctuates his statement with a wink. Some of the stiffness crumbles as they all release laughter in puffs of breath. “I’m pretty sure I’ve always known. I mean, why else would the seven of us complete losers meet and win  _ this much?  _ All crazy good colleges? Are you kidding me? That’s fate, babes. We’re the lucky seven.” 

Beverly giggles at that. Stan feels a breath leave him and it feels like it had been waiting, abating there for a long time. 

“Me too, R-Richie. Whenever I e-even luh-look at you guys, I get th-this immense pain in my ch-chest.” Bill had been known to struggle with his stuttering even more at times of high emotion, and it proved true now. They all wait patiently though. Stan’s head works overtime to decipher his speech, and the extra effort he takes makes him smile. He loves Bill that much. He loves all of them that much. “That’s love, I th-think. I m-mean, fuh-from day one I was head over h-heels for Bevvie, and then I st-started feeling things f-for you all tuh-too.” 

Beverly blushes and cuddles up to his chest. With a transient, bright smile he hugs her closer. Ben watches them for a second before promptly coddling his head in his hands. 

“I think I’m having a sexuality crisis,” Ben says, staring at the floor. 

Eddie nods. “That’s understandable.” 

Beverly rubs his back. 

“Everything you’re saying makes sense, I just can’t- I can’t confront it all. I love you guys, but I’ve always thought I was…” 

“Straight?” 

Ben looks gratefully at Stan. He nods. “I want this. I do. But I’ve never done anything with a guy so I don’t know if I’m supposed to-” He flaunts his hands around, fumbling for a turn of phrase. When it doesn’t come, Mike is there kneeling in front of the couch. 

“We can always try something,” he says. 

Ben looks unsure, but his eyes are solid. “Really?” 

“Do you want to, Benny?” Richie asks. 

Ben nods. 

“Who duh-do you f-f-feel comfortable with?” 

Ben shrugs. “All of you, honestly.” 

Stan sees Beverly cup his face. “Close your eyes,” she whispers sweetly. He obeys. 

She points at Stan. He jumps a little and mouths  _ me?  _ Beverly nods insistently. 

Heart thumping in his chest, Stan takes Mike’s place in kneeling in front of Ben. His eyes are closed, but like R.E.M, his eyes are moving behind his eyelids. Stan reaches out to experimentally cup his cheek the same way Beverly did. Unexpectedly, Ben cants his head into it. Stan smiles to himself. He can feel the stares of the others on him and Ben, but he persists, unbothered. He adds his other hand. Ben’s breath hitches. 

Stan shifts his eyes to Beverly. 

“Can he kiss you?” Bev asks. She’s on Bill’s lap, head tucked squarely into Ben’s neck. 

Ben sighs, nods. 

Stan kisses him. 

It’s closed-mouthed and brief, but Stan feels happiness like an electric shock when Ben presses into it. Then he feels Ben smile against him, teeth against his own lips. 

“Sorry,” Ben says, eyes still closed obediently. “I’m just- yeah. This is what I want. I can roll with this.”

“Hanscom rolls with men!” Richie pumps his fist into the air. Mike had moved to sit against the loveseat, and rolls his eyes as he takes Richie’s hand. Richie eyes him, smitten as well. 

“You can open your eyes,” Stan decides. 

Ben does. He smiles when he sees Stan there. 

“Hey, blue jay,” Stan says. 

Ben hugs him and Stan just catches the brisk  _ thank you  _ as they seperate.

Mike smiles at either Ben, Bev, or Bill as he speaks. “I can’t imagine loving anyone but you guys. Ever since we all met and became losers, man. I want to spend my life with you. We can have a garden and a bed for seven. I’ll cook dinner for you because I know damn well I’m the only one who can cook in this house, and we’ll graduate and have jobs. We can do it all together,” he says dreamily. 

The future he painted is clear, and Stan never wants to go to a museum again. He’ll never see anything as beautiful as Mike’s face when he talks about what he loves, and never feel anything as raw as when Stan realizes that he’s talking about them. 

“I never had a doubt this would happen,” Beverly says. “You’re all ‘it’ for me. Every girl grows up thinking she’ll be wed off to a mediocre man and settles on it. I want to run towards something better, and the six of you are the best.” 

Bill, Ben, and Stan, lean onto her. She’s playing with Bill and Ben’s hands with one hand and the other is tracing the rivets in Stan’s turtleneck. 

Eddie scoots up, taking more of the couch now that Stan and Mike have moved. “Is it my turn? I think it’s my turn.”

“Say anything, Eds,” Richie says softly. 

“I seriously love you all more than I love anything. You guys let me stay with you when my mom got.. bad. You carry inhalers and wet wipes with you because you know germs stress me out. Yeah, don’t think you’re slick, guys. But now we’re all adult-ing together and I’m positive I would have fallen apart already if it weren’t for us living together. Like, I come home and somebody’s always here with a blanket and a movie when I have bad days, and on good days we’re all making jokes that make me breathless when I remember them during lectures. The thing is, I know college will get stressful as we go- as if it isn’t already a bitch, but when things get hard, I want you to be there. I want us to face everything together,” he says. “Because then I know for sure we’ll all come out in one peice.” 

“I’m suh-sorry guys, I’m literally c-crying.” Bill says, staring brokenly at Eddie, who smiles and eagerly gets up to crush him on the couch. More like crush Bev, who then crushes Bill and Ben, but the effect is the same. 

Stan feels watery himself, too. He scrapes at his eyes and even though it’s one of his pet peeves, sits on the arm of the loveseat. He feels Richie’s arm circle his waist and Mike’s hand cup his knee. He feels like it’s where he’s supposed to be. 

His eyes shut for a second when he feels Richie kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“So is this a thing, guys?” Richie asks. 

Tentatively, Stan watches Ben nod, then Bill, Then Eddie followed by Bev. He feels Mike nod against his calf, and Richie kiss him again. He nods. “All signs point to yes, Trashmouth.” 

Richie laughs. 

“Who woulda thought Eddie’s pillow talk would turn into this?” 

Eddie hisses. “Shut up!” 

“Ooh,” Bev smiles. “What?” 

Stan remembers foggily that Richie said something like that to him. 

“Story, now,” Mike demands. 

“No, no, no.” Eddie crosses his arms. 

Ben takes hold of Eddie’s hand. “Please?” 

“If you say anything gross, Trashmouth, I swear-” 

“I won’t,” Richie says. “It was Tuesday night after we fucked- oh, sorry Eddie. ‘Made love’ And I said, as a joke that if I hadn’t been home he would have found someone else. And no kidding, Eddie goes ‘probably’ and I ask who, so he says that he wouldn’t know where to start because you’re all so hot.” Richie wheezes. “And I’m thinking- holy shit, he thinks so too. Thank god I’m not the only one.” Eddie’s shaking his head, being held by Bill on the couch and blushing profusely. “So it lead us here.” 

“Awh,” Beverly coos. “Eddie’s in love.” 

“We’re all in love, Eddie’s not special,” Stan says. Eddie gives him the middle finger, so, relishing in the fact that he’s allowed to do so, Stan’s hand shoots out to grab his and he kisses it. One kiss per knuckle. 

Eddie seizes his jaw and brings him in for a kiss. It’s Eddie, so Stan can taste the lip balm on his lips, and he can smell the clinical, harsh shampoo on his skin and the laundry detergent in his shirt. 

“Hey,” Mike says. 

Ben smiles at him. “Yeah?” 

“I love you guys.” 

“Luh-love you too.” 

-

And thus, the house becomes a home. The house with a haunted bathroom and air conditioning that only works when it isn’t needed and that creaks and cracks like mad in the night. 

It’s home because Bill Denbrough forms words cleanly enough after three more months that he doesn’t need a speech therapist anymore. It’s home when Ben, Bev, Mike, and Eddie spend hours with glitter and glue and colorful paper letters that Richie bought on making a poster for Bill. He comes home from his final appointment to a disgustingly irradiant poster that reads  _ BABY SAID HIS FIRST WORDS TODAY. CONGRATS BILL!  _ and chases Eddie around the house for it. He finds Eddie and bruises him with a kiss. 

It’s home when Beverly Marsh launches her first collection- rainbow themed in the event of pride month, in June. It’s home when she thanks the six willing models and they thank her in turn for making them feel beautiful. They praise her as they help her slip out of the intricate violet dress she’d made herself. And of course she is there to adjust the wine red tie she’d made for Stan, and she is there to adjust Eddie’s indigo fingerless gloves as he tells her that they’re nonsensical because they defeat the purpose of gloves. She kisses his nose and tells him chastely some things don’t have a purpose. Some things exist just to bring about happiness. 

It’s home when Ben Hanscom peeks over his edition of  _ Archidoodle: The Architect’s Activity Book  _ to see a phone call coming in. He answers, and Bev, Richie, and Stan observe in the kitchen. It’s home when Ben runs in, hands shaking, as he tells them he’s going to oversee the construction of the upcoming Grand Library in Philadelphia. It’s home when, a month and a half later, he walks in the door with a suitcase in his arms. It’s still home when he travels and travels and does his best to visit frequently. They find balance eventually, long after they’ve surpassed their twenties, and Ben Hanscom is heading his own company. It’s home when he’s taking calls while helping Richie make cookies, for they both work from home and they’ve found the grace of idleness. 

It’s home when Eddie Kaspbrak builds a company from the ground- a driving company, and it’s home still when he hooks a job as a risk analyst at another insurance firm. He works long hours- perhaps the longest of all of them, and when he comes home half past one in the morning, there is always somebody waiting with their arms open. More times than not it’s Bill, Mike, or Richie. The rest of them sleep at reasonable hours. Bill’s insomnia only worsens when he’s kept up by a tantalizing story in his head he itches to tap out on his computer- or typewriter, Ben bought him one for his twenty-first birthday- and so Eddie picks him off the couch and the two stumble to the nearest bedroom and sleep within minutes. Mike grades the papers of his students, and enlists Eddie be there, head on his shoulder and snores (Eddie would never admit to snoring.) resounding softly in his ear. Then he carries him to bed, and they awake bathed in sunlight and rest. Other times, Richie has a pencap hanging from his lips as he scribbles in barely legible chicken scratch what’s to be his new comedy routine. Eddie urges him to bed while Richie tells him under his breath about the funny thing Bev or Stan did that day. And Eddie falls asleep, Richie’s hands around him, and the murmur of  _ cute cute cute  _ in his ear. 

It’s home when Mike Hanlon wins Teacher Of The Month for the first time of many. He brings home a plaque and Ben hangs it in the living room. He’s praised by Stan tucked between his shoulder and his arm for the entirety of their celebratory dinner and by Bill and Eddie both rambling about how  _ Mikey knows best.  _ It’s home when Mike becomes the head of his school’s history education department, and when his time is consumed by grading papers and writing lectures. He’s never alone. There’s always a Loser or two who spend their time with him- who bring him glasses of water and who remind him to take breaks. It’s home when there’s always Bev to send him out the door with a kiss on the cheek and a tie, and Richie to welcome him back through the door with a mug of hot chocolate and a kiss on the cheek as well. 

It’s home when Richie Tozier’s triplet Netflix specials hit the screen-  _ Trashmouth, Beep-Beep,  _ and  _ Welcome To The Losers Club-  _ and the other six gather to watch them all while Richie grimances and hides his face in the couch. Ben can’t form words between his laughter- he’s grabbing onto Bill and wheezing noisily while Mike coerces Richie into opening his eyes by laying gentle kisses on his eyelids. Eddie’s rolling his eyes to a joke made at his expense, and Beverly is smiling at the TV as if the man himself isn’t right behind her, hands forming intricate braids with her hair. Stan curls into the loveseat, forming objections to Richie’s jokes that leave the comedian dumbfounded. That night, Richie gets offered a tour around the United States. The morning he departs, Bill drives him to the airport with bright affirmations on his tongue. Every night, Richie facetimes the Losers before and after each show. They laugh and they love until he’s back home, and even then. 

It’s home when Stanley Uris takes a day off of work- a prestigious accounting agency- when he falls victim to a nasty head cold given to him by either Bill or Bev. To this day he doesn’t know and to this day they refuse to blame anything other than each other. It’s home when Mike cradles him on his lap and Richie wraps him in a blanket and tells him he’s  _ pretty in a sickly kinda way.  _ It’s home when Eddie slaps him and hands Stan an array of pills that surprisingly, clear his sinuses the next day. Though, Ben adamantly insists he stays home one extra day to regain his energy, dismissing Stan’s feeble objections with a kiss to the forehead. They spend the day watching movies with Bill and Richie, who work from home anyway. 

And they spend their life content in what they have with each other, tied lovingly in seven knots that tug them through thick and thin. Rain or shine, Stan fulfills his promise in nurturing the garden they’d planted in college. 

Though, that’s not what Stan Uris knows now. 

\- 

All Stan knows now is that upon deciding they were now  _ all  _ in a relationship, they’d crammed and slept on the couch altogether. Sure, the bonding experience was great, albeit unnecessary. Not to mention the fact that he’d come to consciousness with his back sore and a slight crick in his neck. 

Although, he didn’t think he’d have gotten up if the world stopped spinning. And maybe it did. What he knows for sure is Mike’s sleeping heartbeat under his chin, Bill’s arms around his waist, Beverly’s fingertips grazing his own across Mike, Ben’s feet tangled with his own, Richie’s hand on his ass, and Eddie’s nose jammed onto his scalp. It’s uncomfortable, but Stan saw past the physicality and to their hearts, beating in tandem. That’s where it mattered. 

He laughs and they begin to stir. 

-

Yeah, it’s most definitely home when Stan sips his coffee to the morning-brittle voice of Richie daring Bill to eat a fridge magnet and to the sight of Ben and Mike weaving a daisy chain together in Bev’s hair on the front porch. 

“They’re gonna have grass stains all over their asses,” Eddie affectionately grumbles behind him. 

Stan siffs out a laugh. Of course they’re going to have grass stains all over their asses, but that’s nothing laundry detergent won’t fix, and that’s nothing that will be worth seeing Beverly wear daisies and stems like a crown. Nothing like Bill telling Richie to pay him ten dollars for the dare, and Eddie running over to put a stop to it immediately. 

Nothing like this, Stan thinks. 

-

And it’s really all thanks to a crazy little thing called love. 

**Author's Note:**

> Never assume I'm done talking about poly losers. I love them so much. Thank you for reading this far! <3  
My tumblr is @poetromantics if you want to yell at me about poly losers.


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